


I’ll be the ship, if you’ll be the wind

by magicpiano



Series: Draw A Circle [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BUT there will be a happy ending in the sequal!, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Historical Hetalia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Multi, Pining, References to Depression, Religious Discussion, Sad Ending, Slight Emotional Manipulation, Slow Burn, So it kind of has a happy ending if you think about it that way?, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, it only comes up like once but it is there, kind of unhealthy relationship that gets better over time, starvation and eating disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24558988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicpiano/pseuds/magicpiano
Summary: And Grantaire was nothing like him. He had more blood on his hands than Enjolras could possibly understand. He was resentful and bitter and broken. If Francis was a beautiful lie, then Grantaire was the ugly truth. Revolutions were such ugly things. Even Enjolras wouldn’t love revolution if he saw it for what it truly was: death, betrayal, disappointment.Or Grantaire is the personification of the french revolution.The Hetalia AU no one asked for. You donotneed to have seen Hetalia to understand this, everything is explained in the story.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), France (Hetalia)/Jeanne d'Arc | Joan of Arc, Grantaire (Les Misérables) & France (Hetalia), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Series: Draw A Circle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775104
Comments: 90
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the content warnings first! Your mental health is important, and this fic does contain some possible triggers. Ignore the rest of my notes if you want, but please read the warnings!
> 
> I have been working on this fic for about 2 years now, not consistently, but I have spent a lot of time on this story.
> 
> This is a crossover with the anime Hetalia, but you do not need to have seen Hetalia to be able to understand this, everything is explained in the story. Neither of my betas have seen it, but they managed to follow the plot fine. But, you do need to have a familiarity with les mis, sorry Hetalia fans, this fic isn't quite for you. You literally will have no idea what is happening if you don’t know les mis. This is a Les mis story, mostly about the Amis, but it will include a few Hetalia characters, specifically one, but they are not the main focus at all.
> 
> If you have no idea what Hetalia is, the short answer is: a lighthearted historical comedy about the personifications of the countries of the world. It is a weird show, like really weird. The plot is bizarre and the show is structured poorly, so it can sometimes be hard to follow. It is not for everyone, while I really like it, you might not. It occasionally gets serious, but for the most part it is a comedy, so if you decide to watch it, don’t go into it expecting something as serious as this fic.
> 
> Lastly, I took a lot of liberties with canon here, for both fandoms. This fic is a combination of the brick and the musical, I take parts I like from both and combine them into a convenient setting for my fic to take place in. I also utilize a lot of popular Hetalia headcanons, because Hetalia often leaves out important information that the fandom is then forced to fill in. 
> 
> In short, I did what I wanted to, but I will explain what I did and why in my author's notes.
> 
> Each chapter will have its specific warnings restated in the beginning notes.  
> Warnings:  
> -Depression and suicidal thoughts, not in the “I want to die” kind of way, but instead “I have accepted that I am probably going to die” way.  
> -Discussion of religion and christian themes. Portrayed neither as positive or negative, just discussed.  
> -Emotional manipulation, but not really? It is not purposeful and they discuss it. ExR is not a healthy relationship in canon and it takes a while for them to become a healthy relationship, but they do get there eventually.  
> -Violence and character death, look, you know what happens in canon, you can guess some of what will happen in this fic.  
> -General angst, while this will have a happy ending, it takes a while and it gets very bad before it gets better. This fic will have a sad ending, but the squeal fic will have a happy ending!
> 
> And finally, special thanks to my betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/) and [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet)!
> 
> Edit: I recommend reading with creator style ON. I use spoiler bars in my warnings at the beginning of chapters, if creator style if off, you will get spoiled.

Grantaire felt the man coming.

He knew it should feel disconcerting, feeling another person’s existence no matter how far the distance between them, but it isn’t. It has been this way for as long as he has been alive, so he is used to knowing things he shouldn’t about a man he has never even met. Grantaire knew with a certainty he cannot explain that the man can feel him too. That is definitely how the man knows where to find him now.

In all honesty, Grantaire was surprised that the man didn’t come sooner; that he let Grantaire live as long as he has. And Grantaire was under no illusions that his continued existence was anything else. That man had been _letting_ him live. Grantaire has been living in this man’s mercy for far too long.

It seems now the man’s patience with him has ended and he has come to put an end to the revolution. Put an end to Grantaire.

Grantaire knew how this is going to go; he knew how this was going to end. There was no point in running, the man could follow him anywhere, the man knew every step he took. And he couldn’t leave Paris anyways, it was more than his home, it was his entire being. The revolution was here, and it will die here, with him.

Grantaire is a Nation. Not in the traditional sense, he was not the personification of a country like the other Nations were. He was the personification of a country that didn’t yet exist, and according to his cynicism, never would.

Grantaire is the French Revolution. And France was coming to put him down once and for all.

Grantaire found the thought strangely peaceful. He had known he would die since the first revolution failed to last. He wasn’t sure what exactly would happen when he died, but for once, he was hopeful. Perhaps when he perished the revolutionary spirit would die with him. Perhaps the Amis would change their minds and go on living safe lives free of revolution and bloodshed.

He wasn’t overly confident about this outcome though. It might work with some of them, but he doubted Enjolras could ever lose his spirit. In truth Grantaire didn’t ever want to see Enjolras lose his spark, but perhaps if it would save his life it would be worth it. He told himself it didn’t matter anyways. An hour from now he would be dead.

If he was going to die, then he would die his way, and his way wasn’t sober. He opened a bottle of wine from his cabinet and made himself comfortable in a chair at his kitchen table.

Taking a sip, he noted how bitter the wine was. He now lamented that he didn’t buy something better considering this was to be his last drink. He had bought the wine because it was cheap, thus he could buy more of it and still afford his paints. Selling art was seldom a lucrative career, especially as a student that wasn't particularly good.

The man was getting closer now. Some small part of his mind told him to flee. The tiny shred of self-preservation that still lived in him was screaming. He ignored it, took another swig of wine, closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

His assassin knocked, a bizarre form of politeness considering the situation at hand.

“The door is unlocked. You can let yourself in.”

Grantaire opened his eyes again at the sound of his door swinging open and was met with the personification of France standing in his foyer.

He was tall and handsome, with a slim body that was curved in just the right way. Most people would call him the most beautiful man they had ever seen, but most people hadn’t met Enjolras. Even still his bright blue eyes and soft blond hair tied in a blue ribbon did remind him slightly of Enjolras, but that is where the resemblance stopped. He wore clothes far too fine, even for Enjolras whose family was extraordinarily wealthy. The only people to wear clothes quite so ornate on a regular basis was the royal family themselves. Considering the man in front of him lived in the palace with the royal family and probably dined with them every night, it wasn’t exactly surprising.

It would still make Enjolras’ blood boil though, to see the personification of France dressed like the nobles. He would see it as a great betrayal. He spent so much time talking about the personification of France that Courfeyrac had begun referring to the man as Enjolras’ mistress, much to Enjolras’ chagrin.

France seemed surprisingly nervous, which was ridiculous considering the situation. If anyone had a right to be nervous, it was Grantaire: he was the one about to be murdered.

France finally moved, removing his coat and hat and placing them on the rack on Grantaire’s wall. This was surprising because Grantaire fully expected France to kill him quickly and be done with it, but it seemed that wasn’t the case. If nothing else, Grantaire was thankful because it might mean he would be able to finish his bottle.

“It seems we finally met. I am Francis Bonnefoy, the personification of France.” France made his way to the table and stuck out his hand towards Grantaire. “But I am sure you already know that.”

It seemed weird to shake hands with France when they have essentially been mortal enemies from the moment Grantaire came into existence, but he couldn't think of any reason to not do it either, so he took France’s hand and gave it a shake.

“Grantaire, the personification of the French Revolution,” Grantaire kicked back his chair and took another deep drink from his wine, “But you also already knew that.”

France smiled at that and sat down in the chair across from Grantaire’s. “I didn’t actually know your human name.”

That was also surprising, Grantaire had assumed France would have done some research before coming here. It didn’t matter though, not really. He was the personification of the revolution, what else did France really need to know about him?

“Most call me R.” Grantaire smiled self-deprecatingly, “Don’t leave me in suspense, how are we going to do this?”

France raised an eyebrow and gave Grantaire a questioning look.

“I don’t see a gun on you, unless you have it hidden somewhere? I take it that means you’ll be using knives. Or is there some type of secret Nation killing weapon I don’t know about?”

France’s eyes shot up to Grantaire’s like he was looking for something. His mouth was a thin line, almost a frown.

“You think I am here to kill you.” France said, the realization dawning on him.

“Of course,” Grantaire replied, “why else would you be here?”

“I’m not here to kill you.” France shook his head. “Why would I- what makes you think I want to hurt you?”

“I am the personification of the French revolution. I am a direct threat to your existence. We cannot both live; one of us must die.” Grantaire thought it was a rather stupid question with an obvious answer. Yet France looked appalled and slightly sick.

“Surely you would want to kill the one person in the world that contains the potential to kill you?”

“No.” France shook his head vehemently. “Please believe me when I say I mean you no harm. I know you can’t have met many of us- or any of us- but we don’t… we don’t do _that_. I couldn't even if I wanted to, a Nation always returns to life as long as their people still exist.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure what to think of this turn of events. Perhaps he was being pessimistic, but he couldn’t see a reason why France would want to talk to him. That being said, confusing or not, he might as well pretend to be a good host.

“Would you care for some wine?” Grantaire offered.

This brought the smile back to France’s face and he nodded. Grantaire got out of his chair, the sound of the wood sliding against the floor so loud in this bizarre silence. Grantaire didn’t often have guests; he preferred to socialize outside his rooms, typically at an establishment that sold alcohol. He did have a few cups though; they were as cheap as everything else he owned but France accepted it without complaint.

He sat back down into his chair and got himself more wine, this time pouring it into his own cup rather than drinking it directly from the bottle. He watched as France did the same, amazed by his elegance: France made every action seem graceful, even the most mundane ones. That’s why it was so surprising that after only one sip France spit up the wine onto the table.

France attempted to apologize but Grantaire couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him. Maybe he was closer to being drunk than he had previously thought, but this was the first moment of joy he had felt after a long day of waiting for his death.

“Not what you're used to?” Grantaire asked, “I am sure the king serves a much finer wine.”

“Yes,” France admitted, “I haven’t had wine like this in quite a while.” France took out his handkerchief and began to dab up the mess he had made on the table.

His embarrassment was shining through in his movements. It was strange; France was not the type of person Grantaire thought capable of embarrassment. It would seem this encounter had France off kilter as well. The situation was getting too much for Grantaire and he found himself blurting out the question he’d been holding back.

“Why are you here?” It wasn’t what Grantaire had meant to say, but he didn’t exactly have a reputation for being eloquent to uphold anyways.

France stilled for a moment before putting away his handkerchief. He seemed to take a moment to gather his thoughts before looking towards Grantaire. The intensity of his stare made Grantaire want to shuffle away but he held France’s gaze instead. He wasn’t going to cower in his own kitchen.

“There are not many of us- at least not many compared to humans.” France said, “We must stick together.”

This was a nice sentiment, but Grantaire didn’t believe it to be true. Sure, France was the only one of his kind he had ever met but he found it hard to believe that they all just get along behind closed doors. History was too bloody for that. France must have picked up on his disbelief because he started speaking again.

“There was a time, when I first came into existence, that I thought I was all alone in this world.” France admitted, “I didn’t understand what I was, but I knew that I wasn’t like all the humans that surrounded me. You must understand, this was a time before Nations were commonly known or understood. I can’t express how much of a relief it was for me to discover that there were others like me.”

Grantaire could understand this to some degree. He couldn’t remember the early days that well, but there had been a time when he didn’t quite understand what he was either. Luckily for him, Nations were common knowledge by the time he came into existence. It also helped that ‘what does the personification of France think of the revolution’ was a common conversation topic amongst the citizens during those early days.

“You kill each other in wars.”

“Our people kill each other in wars,” France corrected. “We often have remarkably little to do with it. If it was our choice, things would be settled quite differently. Unfortunately, our leaders seldom listen to our advice.”

This Grantaire knew well. None of the revolutionary leaders ever listened to anything Grantaire had to say. Not Robespierre, and definitely not Enjolras.

“We fight a lot, but we care about each other too.” France continued, “We try not to hold grudges against each other for things we know are out of the other’s control. All we have in this life is each other.”

“That’s not quite true,” Grantaire said because he liked to be contradictory when possible, “there are humans.”

France let out a small laugh, as if Grantaire had said something purposely funny.

“Humans are our life blood.” France said, “We need them to live, but they cannot be our friends.”

“Is that what you want? To be friends?” Grantaire asked skeptically. He still didn’t quite believe that France wasn’t here to kill him.

“If it would be acceptable to you, I would like to call upon you again sometime?”

Grantaire didn’t really have any reason to say ‘no’. Well, except for self preservation but he had never had much of that.

“You know where to find me, France,” Grantaire said instead of answering definitively. France just smiled like he had won some prize.

“Please call me by my human name, we try to keep our two lives separate, you understand?” France asked.

Grantaire could understand this reasoning. France had no reason to be friends with the Revolution, but Francis Bonnefoy had reasons to befriend Grantaire. He nodded his agreement.

“Good!” France- no, Francis Bonnefoy- said, lifting his glass for a toast, "To new friendships!”

It has been a confusing evening, strange enough that he would later wonder if he had imagined it. He was always up for a drink though, so he met France’s cup with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope they both come off as in character. Obviously, being a lighthearted comedy, it is not common for Hetalia to get serious. So Francis as a character is usually not as sollom as he is here. Hopefully he still sounds in character.
> 
> On the location thing, there is a relatively popular Hetalia headcanon that says Nations can feel when there is another Nation within their borders. I thought this was an interesting concept that could be used in my story so I decided to put it in.
> 
> On the relationships between Nations, Hetalia is kind of vague on how much of a grudge Nations hold against each other. We see multiple times that they remain friends with each other despite the bad things they have done to each other. While they do sometimes get upset with each other over historical events, it doesn't appear to be enough for them to actually hate or avoid each other, hence the separation in their identity/ name. I think this complicated relationship they have with each other is one of the most interesting parts of the show and I hope I can portray it well.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! I will see you next week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endnotes are so long, I am sorry. At least no one can say I didn't do my research?  
> Also thank you to my betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/) and [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet)!
> 
>  **Chapter warnings:**  
>  Drinking alcohol (not excessively)  
> Discussion of the reign of terror and beheadings (not too much, but it is there)

Grantaire was beginning to think that humans were creative in a way Nations could never be.

Gros had spent all afternoon insulting his portrait again today. His latest work was apparently ‘too romantic’. This was a great irony because Grantaire considered himself to be the least romantic person he knew. Jehan would be so disappointed with him.

Grantaire had specifically applied for an apprenticeship with Gros because he  _ wasn’t _ one of his people. Gros was a classical painter whose most famous works were portraits of Napoleon. The man was far away from republican ideals, and that was just the way he liked it. It was unfortunate then that Grantaire’s own painting style varied so greatly from Gros.

It was too late to find a different teacher now, though. In truth, he probably wouldn’t switch even if he could. Grantaire liked Gros. He was a melancholic man who considered himself a realist. Grantaire felt a sort of kinship to him that he had never felt with a human that wasn’t one of his people before.

Kinship to the man or not, it never felt good to be told you are a screw up. Grantaire was already perfectly aware of that, thank you very much.

Suffice to say he was not in a particularly good mood when he arrived at the Musain that evening.

Bossuet, bless him, took one look at Grantaire as he walked in and immediately slid his own drink over to him.

“You know me so well.” Grantaire commented as he took a swig from Bossuet’s drink.

Joly gave them both a disapproving frown at the drink they were sharing. Joly was notorious for having strange opinions on what was and wasn’t sanitary.

“Tell us what your woes are today, Grantaire?” Bossuet asked jovially.

“What makes you think something is wrong?” Grantaire asked as he finished Bossuet’s drink, itching to get up and get another for himself. He had to spend all afternoon around Gros uncomfortably sober and now had no intentions of spending his evening the same way.

“I have simply been sober for far too long today.” Grantaire replied. It wasn’t quite true, but it also wasn’t a lie. Bossuet got up to get them both another drink, giving him a pat on the shoulder as he left.

Even after only a few minutes of being here across from Joly and Bossuet and he was already feeling better. Grantaire never felt more at home than he did here, surrounded by his people, his friends. There was a warmth that seeped through to his bones. Wine and good company was an intoxicating mixture, he could never stay away from either of them for long.

“I know something to bring you some cheer. You should go speak to Jehan.” Joly suggested suddenly, “He has written a new poem and has been eagerly sharing with anyone who asks.”

“And some who haven’t asked,” Bossuet added. Joly lightly jabbed him with his elbow for the comment. Bossuet just gave the same bombing laugh he always did.

“I know little of poetry,” Bossuet said, “But I thought it quite good. If nothing else, sharing it will make him happy.”

Grantaire figured that was as good a way to waste time during the meeting as any. God knows he had no plan to actually pay any attention. He waved Joly and Bossuet goodbye and made his way over to the table where Jehan was sitting. He was flipping through a book of some sort but looked up with a smile when Grantaire approached.

“Bossuet tells me you have written a wonderful poem I simply must hear.” Grantaire said.

Jehan gives Grantaire the biggest grin and Grantaire knew right then he would sit through a dozen terrible poems if it made Jehan happy. The man was simply too kind for his own good.

“Bossuet flatters me,” Jehan said.

The poem isn’t terrible of course, it is actually pretty good, but Grantaire knows little of the literary arts. He apparently also knows little of the visual arts, but that line of thought is too depressing to continue down.

Grantaire was struck again with the thought that humans were so creative. What were Nations except a testament to humanity’s creativity? After all, countries do not truly exist. Borders were imaginary lines the humans drew. Leaders were simply normal people that everyone acknowledged as powerful, an entirely made up roll. It was all fake, not something that could be touched or seen. Yet, from that came something very real. From these beliefs came  _ them _ .

It was remarkable, really, that humans had so much power. When enough of them believed that something was real, it literally became real. He was theirs, fruit of their imagination, a concept brought to life through sheer force of will. It was as beautiful as it was strange.

After Jehan had finished telling Grantaire his poem he moved right on to the next one. Grantaire had heard this one before but let Jehan tell it to him again; Jehan had a peaceful voice and Grantaire thought it surely could wash the troubles right out of his soul.

They didn’t stop, not even when Enjolras began to speak. Grantaire didn’t need to look up to see the passion in Enjolras’ eyes, he could feel it from across town.

Enjolras was his heart. The rest of the Amis he was less certain of, but he was positive Enjolras was his heart. Typically, a Nation’s heart was their capital city and their brain was the city with the highest population, excluding the capital. Grantaire wasn’t like other Nations, though: he didn’t represent land, at least not yet, and probably not ever.

It was fitting that Enjolras was his heart, because from the moment Grantaire had seen him Enjolras had taken his heart and made it his own.

His brain, on the other hand, he was more uncertain about. His first guess was Combeferre: he was probably the smartest of them all, or at least the most well rounded in his knowledge. But Jehan was also a possibility, he was an artist after all perhaps some of that had rubbed off onto Grantaire. But no, that wouldn’t make sense; surely if Jehan was his brain he would be more eloquent with his words. Grantaire had a great talent of mincing words.

Perhaps Feuilly? He was clever in a way none of the others were. He had street smarts as well as being able to teach himself so much. He did things that the others did without the privilege of instructors and wealth.

His people were all so amazingly talented. He really didn’t deserve them.

(He also secretly suspected Joly lived somewhere in his right leg. He was glad this was something he would never have to confess.)

Grantaire had been so distracted by the conversation he was having with Jehan that he hadn’t noticed that Enjolras had shown up behind him.

“If you're going to come to these meetings when you don’t even believe in our cause, the least you could do is not distract the people actually here to help.”

“Were you saying something?” Grantaire asked, because he was an ass on the best of days. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That much is obvious.” Jehan wilted slightly under Enjolras’ stern glare despite it being directed at Grantaire, not him. Enjolras turned away from Grantaire and looked directly at Jehan. It was a clear dismissal and Grantaire tried not to let it depress him.

“We were discussing how to garner more interest in our cause.” Enjolras explained as Jehan nodded along attentively, clearly feeling guilty for not paying attention earlier.

Grantaire knew that the smart thing to do would be to keep his mouth shut; Enjolras had already snapped at him once today, but Grantaire seldom did the smart thing.

“What are you going to do, ask strangers in the street if they want to overthrow the government with you?”

Enjolras’ severe gaze snapped back to him. “We were thinking along the lines of a public demonstration. Something to let the people know that there are still those willing to fight for their freedom.”

Grantaire knew how to read between the lines, especially when it came to matters of his people. Enjolras was planning a riot.

“You must be mad.” Grantaire countered. “You would be caught!” The entire point of the Amis gatherings was that they were secret, that only people members knew and trusted were brought in. Opening it up to the public was the quickest way to get a spy amongst their ranks. If they were caught, they would all be killed. Did Enjolras not understand this?

Enjolras just scoffed in aggravation, “Oh, now you have something constructive to say.”

Before Enjolras could go any further, Combeferre, ever the peacemaker, jumped in. Somewhere in the heat of the discussion Grantaire had forgotten that the room was filled with the other members of the Amis de l'ABC. Now he felt the eyes of everyone on his back. That nasty self-deprecating part of him always wondered if this would be the last time they would put up with him. If this would be the day they grew tired of him and kicked him out for good.

“We haven’t made any final decisions yet,” Combeferre said diplomatically as he held Enjolras’ shoulder, as if he was holding Enjolras back from something. He then turned to look down at Grantaire who was still sitting in his chair, clutched close to Jehan’s side. “If you have a better idea, Grantaire, I am sure we would all love to hear it.”

Enjolras shook Combeferre’s hand off his shoulder and stomped back to the center of the room where Courfeyrac was still standing.

This would’ve been a good time to cut his losses and accept defeat, but he couldn't stop his mouth from moving. They could die doing something stupid like this. All his life Grantaire had seen his people die, had felt it while he watched from afar. He was done with it. He was tired of violence without end and humans that thought being right would keep them safe.

“If you are truly planning a riot,” Grantaire said hotly, “then I think I need to be far more distracting. Then maybe people won’t go and get themselves killed.”

“No one has asked you to come.” Enjolras spat in righteous indignation. “We would surely be more persuasive without a skeptic in the audience.”

“Enjolras -“ Courfeyrac interjected but was quickly cut off by Enjolras.

“No, if he is incapable of helping then he needn’t come.”

It hurt to hear that Grantaire’s presence was ultimately unnecessary, or, as Enjolras had indicated, a hindrance. Grantaire had seen it coming though, this group had been together from before Grantaire had found the courage to visit them.

They didn’t need him. It was the other way around, he needed them. A Nation cannot exist without their people. He just didn’t know it would hurt so much to be dismissed by the very person that was the heart beating in his chest.

Grantaire felt Jehan’s hand fit into his. Grantaire looked up and saw the apologetic smile across his face. Sometimes Grantaire thought Jehan saw too much, that perhaps the overly romantic man saw the things Grantaire preferred to keep secret. Jehan gave his hand a gentle squeeze before turning his attention back to Enjolras’ words.

The only person capable of breaking his heart was Enjolras, and Enjolras was heart.

It was depressingly poetic. The kind of thing Jehan would love in a story but would hate it in real life, especially when his friends were involved in it. Humans really were so creative.

* * *

That evening after the meeting Grantaire was in a lousy mood and already halfway to a drunken oblivion. Then he heard the knocking on his door.

“What do you want?” Grantaire asked curtly. Despite the fact he expected Francis’ arrival at his doorstep - he had felt the man coming - he still wasn’t happy with being interrupted. He knew he should probably be nicer to the only other of his kind he knows, but Grantaire was bad at being nice. He was even worse at doing things that were for his own good.

Francis, for his part, didn’t even look upset by Grantaire’s attitude. “Can’t a friend just drop by for some company?”

“I should warn you; I am not in the mood to be good company today.” Grantaire said but he backed up to allow Francis entry anyways.

“In that case,” Francis said while taking a bottle out from his bag, “it is a good thing I brought this with me.”

Even without touching the bottle he could tell it was some kind of fine vintage. Bad mood or not, Grantaire was not the type to turn down free wine, especially high-quality free wine.

“Please make yourself at home.” Grantaire said, gesturing to the chairs in his kitchen as he fetched two cups.

Francis laughed as he plopped himself down onto one of Grantaire’s kitchen chairs.

“What made you so angry today?” he asked.

It was an innocent enough question, but it just brought back a flare of anger inside Grantaire. All he could think about was Enjolras, busy plotting his own death and never listening to Grantaire’s warnings.

“Humans can be so stupid.” Was all Grantaire said. In truth, he didn’t yet feel drunk enough to discuss this. Luckily Francis seemed to understand because he was soon filling their glasses.

Francis hummed along in agreement. “Yet another reason we cannot be friends with humans. They are simply incapable of understanding.”

Thinking back, Grantaire recalled that Francis had said something similar the last time he was here.

“You don’t believe that we can be friends with humans?” Grantaire asked.

Francis said it so casually, as if it was a commonly known fact, but it struck Grantaire to the bone. He might have been a lazy lout most of the time, but he did care for the Amis and considered them his friends. He was doing his best to sound conversational but some of it must have come across false because Francis frowned at him.

Francis took a moment to collect himself before answering. When he did speak again his voice was full of resignation and emptiness. “There are a lot of reasons, but when it comes down to it… humans die. They die so quickly.”

Grantaire had known this, of course. He had seen it happen many times and felt it happen even more. Compared to a Nation who could survive as long as their country continues to exist, theoretically forever, human lives were dreadfully short.

“That much is rather obvious.” Grantaire said, taking a long drink from his cup. He didn’t like thinking about his friends’ deaths. These thoughts were bringing him back to the argument he had with Enjolras a few short hours ago, the argument he was attempting to drown in wine.

“I don’t know what you have been up to, but I would recommend you keep your distance from humans.” Francis said, “They always break your heart. It’s better to stay with our own kind.”

This sparked anger in Grantaire. How dare Francis come in here and tell him how to live his life?

“I haven’t exactly had the opportunity to interact with other Nations before.”

Francis at least did Grantaire the courtesy of looking ashamed.

“I’m sorry, I should have come sooner.” Francis said, “It was wrong of me to leave you alone for so long.”

“I didn’t expect someone to hold my hand through life.” Grantaire scoffed.

“It is the responsibility of older Nations to look after younger ones, at least for a while.” Francis explained, “I didn’t do that for you.”

“If you wanted to talk to me, you knew where to find me.” Grantaire said, “Why didn’t you?”

Francis’ hands fidgeted around his cup as he attempted to find his words.

“Most of the time when the government changes, the personification remains the same. That is what happened to America during his revolution. The government changed but Alfred, the personification, remained the same. That is what I expected to happen to me.

“I felt the change coming, the revolutionary spirit taking hold of my people, but it all happened too fast. It was too much, I couldn’t change fast enough to keep up with them,” Francis said. “And so from their desire for liberty came your existence.”

Grantaire knew this much. He understood why he existed, but he had never thought much about what that would mean from Francis’ point of view.

“You thought you were going to die.” Grantaire stated.

It wasn’t a question, but Francis answered anyway. “That is typically what happens when a new Nation comes into existence. The new replaces the old. This was confirmed for me by how sick I was at the time. Civil unrest causes the worst stomach flu and terrible headaches.”

“Why didn’t that happen?” Grantaire couldn’t help but ask, “Why do we both exist?”

“I am not entirely certain but… You were a bloody revolution, my dear.” Francis said, the corners of his mouth curling upwards in a little teasing smile. “Not all of the people were fully on board with you. Perhaps if you had revealed yourself sooner, the people might have rallied behind you. That might have been enough to kill me, but most people thought I was still their personification and stood with me instead. Their belief in me kept me alive.”

“In the early days I was… busy.” Grantaire said.

‘Busy’ was one word for it; in truth, he was mostly following the crowds around and rioting. When he was a child, he’d had trouble understanding which emotions and thoughts were truly his and which belonged to his people. He still struggled with this. Grantaire placed the blame for his younger days of revolutionary bloodlust on this. By the time he was old enough to understand how to separate his thoughts from those of his people, quite a bit of time had passed, and Francis had become the face of the revolution.

“I eventually revealed myself to Robespierre.” Grantaire admitted. Looking back though, that was probably the action that had been the beginning of the end of the revolution.

Francis’ hand had instinctively gone to his neck. “Yes, I figured as much.”

Grantaire winced a bit in guilt. After Robespierre found out his revolution had its own personification, he had declared Francis a traitor and had him executed. Unsurprisingly, the people were not pleased with the murder of their country, especially when the new personification he spoke of refused to show himself. Francis had come back to life a few hours later and Robespierre had lost the people’s faith. Grantaire knew that this mistake was one of the major reasons why the people had later called for Robespierre’s head.

“My apologies.” Grantaire didn’t really know what else to say. Luckily Francis just waved him off good naturedly.

“Think nothing of it. As I said before we try not to hold grudges against each other.” Francis said, “But I will admit, I truly thought I was going to stay dead that time.”

“Well if it brings you any solace, it has become abundantly clear that I am the one who will die.”

“That is not necessarily true. Revolution is brewing again,” Francis said, “I am sure you can feel it even better than I.”

It was true that Grantaire felt something, but it was also true that it wouldn’t go anywhere. He knew from past experiences that it would not work. He could feel the people's fear in his bones. They would not rise, if only Enjolras would listen to his warnings…

He needed to stop thinking about his argument with Enjolras. He needed to be drunker.

“What do you say to another glass?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical notes:**
> 
> In the brick Grantaire is said to be a former student of Antoine-Jean Gros. He was a real person and famous painter. In his youth he was a romantic style painter but his later works (the ones he would have made in the time period where he was teaching Grantaire) were Neoclassicism in style. His most famous works were his portraits of Napoleon, which I find to be comical considering what the Amis think of Napoleon. He was also a rather melancholy man who probably had depression, I think he and Grantaire probably got along well or at least understood each other. It says a lot about Grantaire’s character that this was who he picked as a teacher. Gros committed suicide by jumping into the Seine on the 25 June 1835.
> 
> Van Leeuwenhook was the inventor of the Microscope. In 1674 he was the first found bacteria in water (the work was published in 1683). Microscopic organisms were theriesed before him, but he proved their existence. In 1745 Evert Valk, a physician, theorized that bacteria might be the cause of some illnesses. This theory was mostly mocked at the time, to this Valk told "non-believers of Van Leeuwenhoek to use a magnifying glass", which honestly? Iconic. People knew how to throw shade even back then.  
> TLDR; Joly not liking Bossuet and Grantaire sharing a glass or knowing about germs in general is actually totally possible, but he would have been laughed at for saying such a thing. I kind of like the idea Joly reads every medical book and attempts every method, even the laughed at ones, just to be safe.
> 
> Robespierre was known for the ‘if you are not my friend then you are my enemy’ mentality. So in an AU like this, I think it totally reasonable for him to try to kill Francis when he discovered that Grantaire existed. I also think that murdering Francis would piss a lot of people off and would cause people to turn against (and later kill) him. I mean in this universe, from those peoples point of view, he _murdered_ France, their country. Of course they would be angry. A lot of people at the time didn't agree with his extreme policies (people definitely did agree with him at first but people slowly got tired of it), so I think Grantaire deciding he didn't want anything to do with all of the violence and avoiding Robespierre for years to also to be reasonable.
> 
> **Fandom notes:**
> 
> I like the idea of humans being capable of things that a Nation inherently isn't and vice versa. As they are different species they see the world differently and are capable of different things. Similarly, I like the idea that human creativity is so strong it breathes life into the Nations. I think Grantaire has mixed feelings about human creativity and his existence. 
> 
> In Hetalia, parts of the characters' bodies represent different pieces of land, for example Austria's hair is supposed to be Mariazell. It should be noted that these representations change over time as new land is lost or gained. But For Grantaire, he doesn't represent land, he represents an idea, so it seemed natural for his body parts to instead directly correlate to his people. And of course I had to make Enjolras his heart because how could I not?
> 
> I feel like the reason we don't see Nations interact with humans much, besides the fact it would be kind of boring to watch, is because they purposely ignore them as much as possible. Why befriend someone who was going to die? So I think Grantaire being as close to his people would be considered bizarre by Nation standards.
> 
> Hetalia canon strongly implies that Nations raise each other. After all, who else could explain what they need to know? Humans just don't understand them, they can’t, so they need each other. So in this situation it would have been Francis’ responsibility to teach Grantaire how to be a Nation. It was his job and while he had reasons, he still failed at his responsibility.
> 
> I like the idea that Nations are affected a lot by the thoughts and emotions of their people. As a young kid, with no other nation around to teach him things, Grantaire kind of got carried away by his people. I feel like it took him awhile to even realize that he was alive and capable of individual thoughts.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I will see you next Friday!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot that today was friday…  
> The days of the week are all blending together because of quarantine! I am sorry for posting late, but I hope you enjoy the chapter!
> 
> My amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/) and [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet)!
> 
> Chapter warnings:  
> Discussion of riot and resolution  
> Discussion of boxing, small injuries and a broken nose

Boxing with Bahorel was playing a dangerous game of chance. If he made the smallest mistake he would be caught as a Nation. Grantaire enjoyed spending time with Bahorel, but the real reason he boxed with the man was because he enjoyed the adrenaline rush of it. Fighting made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t since the reign of terror ended.

Grantaire tried not to think too deeply about what that meant and what that said about him.

As a Nation, Grantaire was far stronger, faster and more agile than any human., and that made him a great fighter. He was often underestimated because of his lack of visible muscle but he was more formidable than he appeared. Bahorel liked to joke about how Grantaire was full of surprises. He had no idea how right he was.

Nations only got sick from problems occurring in their countries and healed from physical injuries almost immediately. Bahorel once broke Grantaire’s nose during a boxing match. Luckily Grantaire was able to pass off the wound as looking worse than it truly was. Grantaire had covered his face with his hands so Bahorel wouldn’t notice the injury healing itself in seconds.

To this day, Joly was still angry that Grantaire hadn’t gone to see him immediately after sustaining the injury. Grantaire thought this was ridiculous because even he could find no sign of the injury ever actually occurring. This concern for his friends was one of the things that Grantaire admired most about Joly.

This morning Grantaire used boxing as a way to vent his frustrations.

Enjolras’ riot was today. Grantaire felt the nervous anticipation building up in every one of the Amis all morning. It had made him want to punch something or vomit. He had chosen to punch something, and the something, in this case, was Bahorel.

Bahorel had used their match to hype himself up for the inevitable fight that would break out today. That was why he had only agreed to go a few rounds with Grantaire; he wanted to save his strength for later. It made sense but still disappointed Grantaire because even after they were done Grantaire was still itching to punch something.

“If you’re that eager to fight, you should stand by me today.” Bahorel said while they walked together to where they had agreed to meet the others.

Bahorel had a light sheen of sweat covering his forehead. Grantaire, in contrast, hadn’t broken a sweat, a feat Bahorel was confused by but had long ago grown used to.

“In case you have forgotten, Enjolras told me not to come.” Grantaire responded. It was a bit of a ridiculous statement considering he was walking there now.

Bahorel looked over to Grantaire with a frown. “Do you mean to tell me you considered not coming?”

The answer to that was of course ‘no’. Grantaire didn’t think he was physically capable of staying away. There was something about gatherings of his people that drew him in like a moth to a flame. He briefly wondered if other Nations had this problem too, but he dismissed the thought. It hardly mattered what other Nations did; he was not a normal Nation.

He would go to their meetings whether he wanted to or not. He would go whether Enjolras wanted him to or not. He just couldn’t stay away. It was where he belonged, everything in him longed to be there with them. It was some animalistic instinct that he didn't know how to avoid.

“You know me, if my coming will annoy Enjolras, then I have to do it.” Grantaire said instead of actually answering Bahorel’s question.

Bahorel laughed like it was the funniest thing he had heard today. “You really must stop trying to get under his skin.”

“Where would the fun in that be?” Grantaire asked with a smirk.

“I truly don’t understand why you two seem to get so much enjoyment out of tormenting each other.” Bahorel said.

Grantaire thought this was a particularly bizarre statement, because he was pretty sure Enjolras didn’t enjoy any aspect of his company. “He doesn’t enjoy fighting with me. He only puts up with me because the rest of you do.”

It was a truth he didn’t like to think about. Bahorel looked down at him with a curious expression, like he wasn’t quite sure what to think. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something then thought better of it.

“I don’t think that’s true, but if it is, then I really don’t understand either of you at all.” Bahorel finally said, “Actually, even if it is not true, I still don’t understand either of you.”

Grantaire gave Bahorel a friendly shove. Grantaire didn’t expect him to understand his relationship with Enjolras. Grantaire himself didn’t understand his relationship with Enjolras. His feelings towards Enjolras were a complicated mess during the best of times, and they were even worse during an argument. There was just something about having Enjolras’ attention on him. It was a feeling he would do many dumb things to have repeated.

If love was complicated for humans, it was doubly so for Nations.

Grantaire heard his name and looked up to see Courfeyrac waving them over to where some of the others had already gathered. The only one of the Amis not in attendance was Feuilly. He was not able to take an afternoon off of work like the others were. One person was there that Grantaire wished wasn’t, though.

“Why is Gavroche here?” Grantaire turned to Bahorel.

It was one thing that the Amis, still students themselves, were putting their lives on the line. But how did anyone think it was okay for an actual child to be here?

“He must have found out somehow.” Bahorel said. He must have noticed the worry marking Grantaire’s features though because he continued, “Gavroche is street smart and fast. If things go poorly, he will be out of here quickly.”

Grantaire didn’t like it, but he also knew it was pointless to try and convince Gavroche to leave. All of them had tried to tell him to stay away at least once. As it turns out, telling Gavroche that they were doing dangerous adult business made him _more_ likely to pop into meetings unannounced. It didn't help that Enjolras had told Gavroche that the revolution was to help people like him. 

Gavroche was enamoured with the idea that the republic would put an end to starving citizens on the street. Grantaire knew that wasn't quite true, people had still starved under the republic’s rule. But it was a nice idea, and all of the Amis believed it to be true. It was just a shame that their nice idea had Gavroche determined to fight with them. Nothing anyone said could dissuade him.

“I am going to go stand by him.” Gavroche said. The least he could do was watch over the kid.

Bahorel nodded his agreement and went over to the others while Grantaire went to the alley where Gavroche was standing.

Gavroche grinned up at him with that satisfied look he got whenever he got away with something he wasn’t supposed to. He was a good kid, a troublemaker, but a good kid. Grantaire once again found himself wishing that Gavroche wasn’t one of his citizens. People died in revolutions, especially those that didn't deserve it, and the Amis so badly didn't deserve it. 

It would have been better for Gavroche if he had never met the Amis at all. Grantaire thinks it would have been better for his already weary heart if he had never met Gavroche either.

Grantaire looked up when he heard Enjolras yell. Grantaire could feel his citizens come to attention, could feel something in him come to life. For a single moment Enjolras’ voice had dragged the revolution out of him. For a moment he ceased to be Grantaire and became The French Revolution.

Grantaire was quick to bury that part of himself again.

* * *

“I tried to visit last week but I got caught in a crowd, some sort of riot in town.” Francis said while hanging up his coat on Grantaire’s wall. “I don’t suppose you have anything to do with that?”

“In a sense.” Grantaire answered.

The Amis de l'ABC had attempted to attract people to their cause by way of a miniature riot in the streets of Paris. The entire event had ultimately consisted of Enjolras giving an angry and inspirational speech as other members handed out printed pamphlets.

As far as Grantaire was concerned, it was a huge waste of time and resources that had succeeded in nearly getting them shot. Something did come out of the gathering though, as much as he hated to admit it, even just to himself. He was stronger now. Something Enjolras had said must have stuck with some of the people in the street because Grantaire could feel in his bones that his population had grown.

Grantaire wished his population would stop growing. The more people became republicans the more would die.

Francis once again made himself comfortable in his kitchen. Out of a basket he brought with him came another fine bottle of wine and an assortment of cheese and bread. Grantaire wasn’t sure if Francis thought him unable to feed himself, but he wasn’t proud enough to say no to something that looked so mouthwatering.

“Last week, I was recognized on my way here,” Francis explained, “I figured you wouldn’t want people to know that I was visiting you. I went off with the citizens that recognized me instead.”

Grantaire was glad Francis hadn’t led curious people to his doorstep. He would have no explanation as to why the personification of France was visiting him, a seemingly normal art student.

“I ended up spending the whole afternoon entertaining a group in a cafe.” Francis continued. “Don’t get me wrong, I like speaking to my people and I am glad my presence gives them some reassurance… but it can make it hard to live your life when you are constantly being stopped.”

It wasn’t a problem Grantaire had ever had, but then he had never stood next to a king during public appearances, either.

“Did you get any of the letters?” This was the one unfortunate problem that had come out of Enjolras’ riot that Grantaire couldn’t help but ask about.

“What letters?” Francis asked, looking at him curiously.

“Enjolras believes that you are actually being held against your will by the government.” Grantaire explained, “He is sure that if you were free then you would be fighting at their side.”

This was completely insane, of course; Grantaire had told Enjolras as much. Enjolras, as usual, didn’t listen. In Enjolras’ defense, this theory probably made sense if you were unaware that there was another personification.

“He has been trying to send you letters for quite a while now. I was curious if any of them actually reached you.” Grantaire said, “He has tried hiring many people of varying repute to try and sneak you a letter.”

Unfortunately, this had turned into an issue that was unlike to go away anytime soon. Grantaire has no idea how to handle it either.

“Enjolras heard that you were in Paris the same day as his riot and has convinced himself that you were trying to come to them but were stopped by the guards.” Grantaire continued, “He has doubled his attempts to contact you.”

It was funny in a way. Francis had given Grantaire his contact information in case he wanted to write to him. Enjolras would be so angry with him if he knew Grantaire was withholding this information from him.

“I don’t think I have received any letters from your rebellion leader,” Francis admitted, “but I do get quite a bit of mail. My assistant reads most of them, he only gives me the important ones. If you wanted, I could ask him about it?”

“No, you had better not.” Grantaire said, “It surely contains illegal dealings. I would prefer to not attract the authorities just yet.”

Francis nodded along but then seemed caught in a sudden thought. His lips turned into a smirk and Grantaire knew before he even opened his mouth that he was about to be mocked.

“Does your Enjolras talk about me often?” Francis leaned over so their elbows were touching, but Grantaire pushed him off. “Are you jealous?”

“Get over yourself, he doesn’t talk of you that often.” 

That was a lie. Enjolras talked about Francis nearly all the time, at least five times per meeting. But Grantaire wasn’t going to give Francis the satisfaction of that knowledge. Francis laughed.

“He is just enamored with you as a concept.” Grantaire said, “Trust me, he would hate you as a person.”

For some reason, this just made Francis laugh even harder. Grantaire hadn’t realized just how true that statement was until he said it out loud. At that moment, he looked at Francis and his expensive clothes and fine wine bottles and realized that Enjolras would absolutely loathe him. He was the embodiment of everything Enjolras hated about this country, everything he wanted to change, to fix.

If Grantaire was the revolution - a republic waiting to be - then Francis was the monarchy.

“He met you once as a child,” Grantaire said suddenly, “I think that he feels some sort of connection with you because of that.”

“I’ve met him?” Francis asked.

Enjolras told this story often enough. Grantaire had summarized that it was one of Enjolras’ proudest moments even if it had happened when he was seven and he hadn’t actually done anything.

“Enjolras’ father is quite wealthy and apparently important enough to have been invited to a ball you also attended.” Grantaire explained, “From my understanding, he only actually spoke to you, but only for a moment.”

Francis tilted his head up in thought.

“I am sorry to say I don’t recall him; I wish I did.” Francis frowned in thought, “It is rather strange though…”

“What’s strange?” Grantaire asked.

“Typically, Nations remember their important humans quite clearly,” Francis explained, “It makes me wonder if perhaps he was yours even then.”

“He isn’t mine,” Grantaire said automatically. Unfortunately, he could already feel a blush race up to his cheeks. Maybe he could blame it on the alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hetalia is kind of vague on how injuries to Nations work, but most of the fandom tends to agree that when it comes to physical wounds, they probably have some kind of supernatural healing. They are also shown to be much stronger than humans.
> 
> I like the headcanon that Nations feel most comfortable within their own borders, but because Grantaire represents an idea instead, he feels most comfortable around his people. This is why he feels so drawn to them.
> 
> I also like the headcanon that Gavroche hangs around the Amis a lot, even when they tell him not to.
> 
> Francis is literally a representation of the monarchy, something Enjolras hates. Enjolras just doesn't know that, which is why he keeps trying to contact him. The Amis are sure that France is on their side, considering what happens in canon that is a pretty sad belief. 
> 
> Also in a universe where France is literally personified Enjolras would absolutely talk about him all the time.
> 
> Also, [here](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/) is my blog if you want to contact me!
> 
> Thank you for reading! I will see you all next week!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry I didn't update yesterday, I was really busy and forgot. I am thinking of changing my weekly upload day to Saturday because I think I will be less likely to forget then...
> 
> Marius is here because I said so.  
> Okay, but seriously this story takes place in a mixed universe between both the brick and musical. So Marius is one of the Amis and attends meetings, but he is still busy angsting about his love life and is still, much to Combeferre’s annoyance, a Napoleon stan.
> 
> **Warnings:**  
>  Slight emotional manipulation (but also not really? It is complicated)  
> Drinking (not excessively, but it is used as a coping mechanism)  
> Discussion of mourning  
> Joking sexual innuendos  
> Vague references to the reign of terror and violence  
> Little bit of self hatred
> 
> My amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/) and [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet)!

How do you know that a love is real?

It was a question that Grantaire kept coming back to. Nations felt what their people did and Grantaire understood this. He didn’t like it; he wished his mind was his own but, he accepted the unfortunate facts of his own existence.

Grantaire had adored Robespierre when he was alive. The people had loved him and so had he. He only realized that he didn’t really care about Robespierre as a person at all when the man was dead, and people didn’t cheer his name anymore.

It was often so hard to tell which emotions were his. He remembered the uncontrollable anger he felt in the beginning of his existence. He remembered the hope for a better future he had felt before. He remembered how his people’s hope died inside of him.

So how do you know when a love is real? He remembered how he felt when Enjolras first looked at him, the way his body seized for a moment and he forgot how to breathe. He knew that when Enjolras is near it feels like his heart is finally beating at the pace it is supposed to. He knows he would do terrible things to keep Enjolras safe.

He knows that Enjolras is his citizen, and no other Nation can have him. He knows that he doesn’t like Enjolras speaking of his devotion to France and trying to send him letters. Maybe Francis was a little bit right about him being jealous…

“I just think it sounds too… vague?” Jehan said, looking over Courfeyrac’s shoulder at the piece of parchment on the table in front of him.

“I agree,” Bossuet added in despite not even looking at the letter, preferring instead to stay squished between Joly and Grantaire. “But I don’t see why that’s a bad thing. Wasn’t vague what we were aiming for?”

“We want vague, not incomprehensible,” Combeferre countered. He was seated right next to Courfeyrac and Enjolras, who were both examining the letter like they weren’t the ones who had written it.

“What if we wrote it in another language?” Feuilly suggested.

“How is writing it in another language more comprehensible?” Bahorel asked Feuilly quietly. It was clear to Grantaire that the question wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone else, but Grantaire had much better hearing than a human. Before Bahorel and Feuilly had a chance to discuss it any more, Jehan cut in.

“Do any of you know for certain which languages France speaks besides French?”

Grantaire actually did know the answer to that question, but he had no way of explaining where he got this knowledge from, so he kept his mouth shut. Apparently, most Nations spoke many languages, it was the only way they could communicate with each other after all. Francis had said he didn’t know a single Nation that didn’t speak at least four languages - except for Grantaire, that is. This was apparently another way that Grantaire was a failure because he only knew a bit of English.

In his defense, he hadn’t had hundreds of years of study and practice.

When no one answered, Jehan sighed and went back to looking over Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“There is one other problem with this draft. It is too… expressive.” Combeferre said, trying his best to be diplomatic about it, in vain: Enjolras still looked offended at the implication that his writing was anything less than perfect.

Grantaire was surprised Combeferre had only found one additional problem. He personally thought their letter was a disaster. It was shockingly worse than their earlier letters which essentially boiled down to ‘Please help us overthrow the government’ followed by a location and time. Now that Enjolras was positive that France was trying to join them, his letter had become much more emotional.

“It almost reads like a love letter,” Marius said. It did read a bit like a love letter, but they had all heard enough about Marius’ love life to be exasperated any time he so much as mentioned that word.

Marius wasn’t quite one of Grantaire’s people. He also wasn’t quite one of Francis’ people. He existed in the vague space between the two Nations. The place had been growing larger as of late. There were many people unsure what to believe in. There weren’t that many that liked the king, but at the same time most were willing to wait and see how he would turn out. In truth, he hadn’t been in power that long in the scheme of things. People like Marius were increasingly common.

Grantaire wasn’t positive why Marius kept joining them in their meetings, besides the friendship of course. If he had to guess it was because Marius wanted to meet France too. He wanted to know if Napoleon had truly helped the country, like his father had thought, or had made things worse, like the Amis thought. Marius came looking for some type of insight or justification that only Francis could give.

It was a shame then that none of them were ever going to meet Francis.

As far as Grantaire could tell Francis had no interest in meeting with the student revolutionaries. His bizarre desire to befriend Grantaire seemed to stem purely from an affinity to others of his species. He hadn’t gotten any of their letters, and he hadn’t been trying to come see them and even if this letter miraculously made its way into his hands, he wouldn't respond to it.

In short, this entire meeting was completely pointless. Grantaire had said as much earlier, but as he says something along the same lines every meeting, he was promptly ignored.

It looked like Courfeyrac was going to jump in and turn this into another joke about France being Enjolras’ mistress but was stopped by Jehan squeezing his shoulder. He frowned in faux offence at being dismissed but kept his mouth shut.

Grantaire really didn’t like the idea of Enjolras sending Francis love letters. It filled him with an irritation he had no why to explain. He did what he always did when he had emotions he could understand, he turned it into a joke.

“France is a rather notorious flirt, isn’t he?” Grantaire mocked, “Maybe you should write him a love letter.”

“Are you trying to imply that France is a scoundrel?” Enjolras snapped. Of course, Enjolras would take it that way, why is Grantaire surprised.

“Having an active love life hardly makes you a scoundrel.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?”

“We are not phrasing this as a love letter.” Combeferre interjected, clearly having reached his limit when it came to listening to Enjolras and Grantaire argue.

“Actually, I kind of like the idea.” Courfeyrac said, “I know Grantaire was just messing around when he said it-”

“I was doing no such thing.”

“But it actually makes sense when you think about it.” Courfeyrac completely ignored Grantaire’s comment, “If he really is being trapped, they probably are watching his mail too. A love letter is not very suspicious.”

“Well the most important part is letting him know where to find us.” Enjolras said, “How do we put that in a ‘love letter’?”

“Why are you asking me?” Courfeyrac said, “I can’t come up with all the ideas.”

“This wasn’t even your idea.” Grantaire said.

Courfeyrac grinned at him. “I am pretty sure it was my idea.”

Joly, the traitor, jumped right in. “Yes, it was definitely Courfeyrac’s idea. I definitely didn’t hear anyone else suggest it first.”

Grantaire would have given Joly a friendly jab if Bossuet wasn’t sitting between them. Instead Grantaire just kicked him under the table. The movement caused Joly to laugh out loud and most of the other Amis found themselves joining in. Their laughter filtered through him leaving him warm inside.

When Grantaire looked up he saw that Enjolras was watching him. Enjolras was the only one who hadn’t laughed with them at least a little, the man was too serious for his own good. He wished he could make Enjolras smile, it seemed all he could do was make Enjolras frown. He was frowning at him now.

“If you're finished we have a letter to write.”

Grantaire thought it was a little unfair for Enjolras to be blaming him when it was Courfeyrac and Joly’s fault too, but he supposed it made sense. Enjolras actually liked Courfeyrac and Joly after all.

The decision on whether or not to write it like a love letter was continued. Enjolras was firmly against it but Courfeyrac was quickly winning other members over with his logic. Grantaire admitted it was less suspicious then the vaguely illegal sounding letter they had written before and he was always in favor of the Amis doing things that weren’t likely to attract attention and get them killed. But…

He hadn’t expected Enjolras would actually start writing a love letter to Francis. He had intended the comment as a joke on Enjolras’ complete lack of interest in romance and single-minded devotion to his revolution. He really did need to learn to keep his mouth shut. He decided then to keep quiet for the rest of the discussion, lest he make any more fatal comments.

Instead he watched Enjolras. Sometimes when he spoke Grantaire couldn’t help but think of Robespierre. Enjolras, who venerated the man, would likely take this as a complement. Enjolras always said that they would do what he did but better, that they wouldn’t make the same mistakes that he did. He didn’t want a bloody revolution filled with terror; he didn’t want a revolution like Grantaire. Little did he know all revolutions were bloody.

They used to call Robespierre ‘the incorruptible’. Grantaire wasn’t sure how accurate that was in retrospect, but he did know Enjolras’ heart and he was the real deal. He wasn’t a politician who said one thing and did another. He wasn’t like Napoleon who wished to put himself in a position of power. He just wanted to help people. He was kind and passionate and so, so good.

And Grantaire was nothing like him. He had more blood on his hands than Enjolras could possibly understand. He was resentful and bitter and broken. If Francis was a beautiful lie, then Grantaire was the ugly truth. Revolutions were such ugly things. Even Enjolras wouldn’t love revolution if he saw it for what it truly was: death, betrayal, disappointment.

Grantaire used to adore Robespierre. He would watch the man from a distance at his public appearances. He would listen to the man speak and feel alive. When it came down to it, was what he did with Enjolras any different? He made cruel comments in an attempt to get his attention, living for the moments Enjolras looked his way.

The Amis loved Enjolras. The revolution loved Enjolras. Grantaire thought he loved Enjolras too, but it was impossible to tell.

* * *

Francis had agreed to sit for a portrait from Grantaire. Gros had assigned him another project and he was determined to do this one better. Gros did have a liking for paintings of French royalty; Grantaire figured that he would appreciate a painting of France himself. Although he would have to lie about who modeled for him and claim he had painted the face from memory.

Francis had been rather excited at the prospect. Grantaire wasn’t sure why, his art was passable on his best days. Surely Francis could have any artist in the country falling over themselves to paint him?

Francis had made himself comfortable sitting on Grantaire’s bed. He was reading some German book with a title Grantaire could not understand. Grantaire was going to change the background to look more like a palace and less like a cheap apartment but the posing almost made Francis look like a regular person and not the vaguely mythological figure most referred to him as. Grantaire wondered if Enjolras would appreciate it.

He needed to stop thinking about Enjolras, and yet…

“Do you have a problem telling the difference between your feelings and your people’s?”

Grantaire made a point of looking only at the canvas in front of him and not at Francis. It was a question that had been haunting him for a while now, although he longed to hear the answer, he didn’t want to see Francis’ face as he gave it.

“I take that to mean that you do?” Francis asked. Grantaire heard Francis move around even though he had been told to sit still.

Grantaire grit his teeth and tightened his hold on his brush. He didn’t appreciate being put on the spot and forced to answer. Luckily, Francis seemed to have pity for him and started talking again.

“It is relatively common,” Francis said, “it is worse when you are younger. By the time you are my age you can almost always know for sure which is which.”

Grantaire wondered if this type of mentorship and advice was what Francis meant before about older Nations helping out younger Nations. Either way, he knew when he needed help and was willing to swallow his pride for a moment and ask for an explanation.

“But how do you know?” Grantaire asked.

“Well, I suppose the best place to start is to ask yourself, ‘do I have any reason to think this?’ ‘do I have any reason to feel this way?’ If the answer is ‘no’ then the thought or emotion probably doesn’t belong to you.”

Grantaire finally chanced a look up at Francis and was caught by the gentle smile the man was giving him.

“You’re in love,” Francis said suddenly.

Grantaire nearly dropped his brush in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Francis was right, of course, but Grantaire was far too stubborn to ever admit such a thing.

“I know what loving a human looks like,” Francis explained. “More so than that, I know what loving one of your leaders looks like.”

Grantaire felt his breath catch in his lungs. It was a callout far too accurate for comfort. Grantaire would be damned before he let this man lecture him on his failing of the heart.

“Speaking from experience there, monsieur?” Grantaire taunted; a dumb thing to do to the man currently doing him a favor.

Francis didn’t rise to the bait, unlike Enjolras who would have, if Grantaire had hurled a similar insult in his direction. He just looked down at the book in his hands with a sad smile on his face. He looked so much older now than he had only moments before. For the first time Grantaire noticed the little wrinkles around his eyes and a weariness in his posture which spoke of decades of life and loss. Grantaire felt the anger within him deflate and a cold shame take its place.

“Yes,” Francis said quietly.

“My condolences,” Grantaire said in lieu of an apology.

“It is a mistake most of us have made at some point.” Francis said, “Neither of us is special in this regard.”

A ‘mistake’, Francis called it. He knew that Enjolras would never love him back and he had found peace in that truth. Even so, he didn’t like to think of loving Enjolras as a mistake. Grantaire had made many mistakes, too many to count, but had always believed loving Enjolras was the one thing he had gotten right. Even if it ended in death.

“At least you had an opportunity to love?” Grantaire ventured.

“Poetic.” Francis scoffed. “But it hardly eases the pain.”

All of the history books and the stories make the nations seem so distant. Some people even believe that they are not capable of feeling emotions. Looking at France now, he wondered how anyone could think that. Could they not see he was in mourning? It is strange to admit that even though Grantaire was a Nation himself he had let the prejudge of the common people taint his views towards the others of his kind.

“She was brave, and kind, and she came out of nowhere to save me.” Grantaire was going to ask what Francis was talking about but one look at his face told Grantaire he was referring to his lost love.

“Save you?” Grantaire couldn’t help but ask.

This time Francis had a real smile on his face, the type that made his eyes shine and made him look much more beautiful and young.

“Oh yes,” Francis said nostalgically, “I am sure you have heard the stories of Joan of Arc?”

Of course, Grantaire knew who she was, it was impossible not to have heard tales of her. It was surreal though to be sitting next to someone who had known her personally- who had  _ loved _ her, who apparently still did. Of course, he also knew how her story ended. He had initially assumed that Francis had at least enjoyed a lifetime with his mysterious human. It would seem he only got a little time instead.

Grantaire could give no words of sympathy that would be enough, so he went with a complement instead. “She must have been an amazing woman.”

“Oh, she was,” Francis said, “but unfortunately I am far too sober to talk of love.”

“I have more cheap wine,” Grantaire smirked and gestured to the kitchen behind him, “But nothing as fancy as you brought with you last time.”

Grantaire got up and began rummaging through his cabinets for a bottle.

Grantaire poured out a glass of wine and handed it to Francis who took a long deep drink. Apparently, that was the type of night it was going to be. Grantaire could get down with that, his painting could surely wait for later.

Grantaire poured himself a glass too then joined Francis on his bed. Grantaire wasn’t actually sure he wanted to discuss love with Francis. Some part of him wanted to keep Enjolras a secret, something that belonged to the Revolution not France. Enjolras would hate him thinking of him in such a way.

“Speaking of love,” Grantaire commented, “You have a love letter coming in the mail.”

“I get quite a few love letters every week. I am quite the charmer, you know.” Francis winked at him, the offer and insinuation obvious.

Grantaire gave him a shove, “Not interested.”

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Francis offered seductively. He then quickly changed back to a causal voice, “I take it that this specific letter is from someone you know?”

“The Amis thought the best way to get a letter through any kind of security measure at the palace was to make it sound romantic in nature.” Grantaire didn’t like the thought of Enjolras writing other people love letters, but he supposed it was kind of funny in retrospect. “So, if you get a letter that sounds like you're being propositioned, that’s not what's happening.”

“No one is monitoring my mail, as far as I know at least.” Francis laughed, “The king is quite sure of my loyalty. To be honest I do not think it is possible for a Nation to betray their people.”

This was news to Grantaire. Since meeting Francis he had been constantly surprised by just how much about his own kind he didn’t know. He shouldn't be, he supposed, it was only logical that there were things about his existence he didn't know about, after all he didn't have anyone around to teach him before now. Even so, he still didn't like realizing just how much he didn't know about himself.

“I didn’t know that.” Grantaire admitted. It made sense though, he certainly didn’t think himself capable of betraying the Amis.

“We belong to them. What are we if not slaves to their will?” Francis said. “You don’t betray your people, I mean it is possible I suppose, but why would you? To do so goes against everything we are.”

Grantaire thought back to when Robespierre had asked him to come to Francis’ execution. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to see one of his own kind killed and he didn't want to be a public spectacle. Grantaire had only avoided attending by convincing him that it would be dangerous for him to be around Francis. Then he ran away in the night. Grantaire thought that if he was truly ordered to go to the execution, he probably would have gone. Because it was his duty, because his people asked him to, because it was what he was  _ supposed _ to do. He existed for them. He knew his place.

It was probably true; he did essentially belong to the Amis. This thought was followed immediately by another:  _ Enjolras would hate this. _

Enjolras was all about freedom for everyone; this would make his blood boil. Grantaire would just have to make sure that Enjolras never knew. This wasn’t a problem because he had no plans of anyone ever finding out he was a Nation.

“Interested in coming with me to Monaco?” Francis asked suddenly.

“What?” 

“I am going on a trip to visit my sister Lucille, the personification of Monaco.” Francis said. “I look forward to a bit of time to escape the drama of court. Besides, the last few times she was the one to visit me, it is time I return the favor.”

“Why would you want me to go to Monaco with you?” Grantaire asked, confused.

“I thought you might like to meet some more of our kind,” Francis said. “You would like Lucille, I think. She is very smart and kind, if a bit overly serious when it comes to her work. She is amazing at cards too; never play with her, she will win. She always wins.”

Grantaire really wasn’t sure whether he wanted to meet any of the other nations. He saw no point in it; his failure of a revolution was coming up in a few months. Besides he only had a little time left on this Earth, he wanted to spend it with his friends-- with Enjolras.

“I don’t think I could stand to be away that long,” Grantaire admitted.

“It is hard leaving your borders for the first time,” Francis nodded in understanding. “It gets easier over time. It is too bad; I think Lucille would have liked you, too.”

Grantaire seriously doubted that but nodded along nonetheless. It was ironic though; the Amis were going through so much trouble to send a letter to Francis, and he wouldn’t even be there to receive it.

“Wait,” Grantaire said suddenly. “You have a sister? How is that possible?”

“Well, I don't think we are related the way humans are,” Francis amended, “but we feel like siblings. It is relatively common amongst Nations to feel a familial connection, there are quite a few Nations that consider themselves to be siblings.”

“And that doesn't strike you as odd?” Grantaire asked. In all the books he had read on Nations none of them had mentioned siblings. Perhaps this was another one of those things Nations prefered to not tell humans.

“I cannot explain it. It is simply that the first time I met her, I looked at her and knew that she was my sister.” Francis said.

Grantaire didn't quite understand but he knew well what it was like to look at someone and know deep within you how they related to you. When he first met Enjolras he took one look at him and knew the man was his heart. Perhaps it was the same idea, but if he was going to think about Enjolras he needed more wine.

After a few more drinks, the hour had grown late. Grantaire had made no progress in his painting and apparently wouldn’t for some time because Francis was leaving town. He would have to start another project…

It was late to be leaving but Grantaire assumed Francis would call a carriage; he was certainly rich enough to do so without money being a problem. As Francis stood in his doorway, putting his coat back on, he turned to Grantaire with a small smile.

“Just because the emotion doesn’t come from you, doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure what Francis meant by that, but before he could ask the man, he had disappeared down the stairwell leading out of his building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes:**
> 
> Monaco came under French control during the French Revolution and remained there till after the fall of Napoleon, it was then controlled by the Kingdom of Sardinia. It remained a part of the Kingdom of Sardinia until 1860 when the Treaty of Turin caused Monaco, Nice and Savoy to be ceded to France. They eventually bought their independence from France for the price of 4,100,000 francs in 1861 as part of the Franco-Monegasque Treaty.
> 
> On a (vaguely) related history note, the Kingdom of Sardinia changed their name to the Kingdom of Italy on 17 March 1861. This eventually became the present-day Italian Republic.
> 
> So, during the time this story takes place, Monaco was not a part of France, but had been recently (at least by Nation standards). So, I think it makes sense for Francis and Lucille to be missing each other's company. Also she is one of my favorite characters so I just had to find a place to stick her in.
> 
> The french people really did adore Robespierre at first, so it makes sense that Grantaire did too.
> 
> Gros’s most famous portraits were of French nobility, specifically Napoleon. In a universe where the literal personifications of countries exist, I don’t think it is a stretch for him to have painted Francis or at the very least, he would appreciate the artistry behind a painting of the man.
> 
> Joan of Arc refused relationships with men because she considered herself to be devoted to God. In no way am I implying that she was in a relationship here, to do so would be an insult to the real woman I am discussing here. What I am saying is that Francis loved her in some way, perhaps as a person, or perhaps as a Nation loves one of their heroes. It is unknown what exactly he felt for her in canon, but we do know he cared deeply for her. I would say more about her, but this author's note is already very long. 
> 
> **Fandom Notes:**
> 
> The characters in Hetalia do speak multiple languages, but it is never really stated which language each characters speaks, probably because it just doesn't matter to the plot. But it is canon that France speaks English, but pretends _not_ to speak English around England, thus forcing England to speak to him in French. Like he will speak English to someone else right in front of England, then turn to him and pretend he has no idea what England is saying. This is a level of pettiness I can only hope to emulate. TL;DR: All Hetalia characters speak multiple languages.
> 
> How do siblings work with Nations? It is literally never explained. It is implied that they just appear out of thin air essentially, so how can they have familial relationships? Idk, no one in the fandom does, they consider themselves to be siblings and that is good enough for me.
> 
> **Author’s notes:**
> 
> This chapter is where the plot begins to get a bit more complicated. Just so you know, this is what I meant with the ‘emotional manipulation’ warning. Grantaire is unable to tell the difference between what he feels, and what his people feel. Thus, he is unsure about his feelings towards Enjolras. But Enjolras doesn't know about this, so it is unintentional emotional manipulation but I still tagged it because it might be triggering to some.
> 
> Grantaire is maybe a little bit jealous over Enjolras’ love for France. Also, I find the concept of Enjolras writing a literal love letter to France to be hilarious.
> 
> BTW, the Joan of Arc Hetalia episode was so good, like without a doubt the best episode in the whole series. It is amazing that Hetalia can go from a bizarre, but mostly upbeat comedy to serious and sad at the drop of a hat. I didn't expect that episode to go as hard as it did. Even if you don’t like Hetalia, that episode is great.
> 
> Also, [here](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/) is my blog! And [here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog!
> 
> Thank you for reading, I will see you next week!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should all be happy to know I am making some good progress in chapter 18, it has been giving me a bit of a headache, but it is finally beginning to come together! 
> 
> Okay, so the real plot really begins here. Everything up till this point was, essentially, worldbuilding, so that people who have no idea what Hetalia is can understand what is happening. The plot starts now, and it doesn’t really slow down again till chapter 20. That means the tagged warnings are going to start coming into effect, so please be careful before continuing. 
> 
> **Warnings:**  
>  Drinking  
> Character death (Spoiler, highlight to read. The character death is temporary and happens from a gunshot wound.)  
> Violence/weapons/blood  
> Yes, this story has a happy ending, but it gets a lot worse before it gets better. Edit: To be clear, the happy ending is in the sequel!
> 
> And finally, my amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/) and [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet)! <3

Grantaire didn’t like to drink alone. It wasn’t fun, it was mostly just depressing. That isn’t to say he didn’t do it, unfortunately he drank alone quite often. But he avoided it if it was at all possible. He seeked out Joly, Bossuet, or Bahorel for companionship most evenings. But when they were unavailable and he still wanted company, he usually ended up at the Corinth.

It didn’t have the same warmth that the Musain had, but that was to be expected, the Musain was always filled with friends. The Corinth on the other hand was usually filled with the slightly less reputable sort of patron. This suited Grantaire just fine because the less reputable usually made for good drinking partners. Grantaire never had trouble meeting drinking buddies.

He was usually an upbeat, if slightly verbose, drunk. He knew he was fun to talk to for a few hours; it was one of his few positive traits. That and the fact that he was good at dominos made him an ideal drinking partner for the others who, like him, lacked companionship. The problem was the people he tended to attract most were republicans.

He wasn’t sure why exactly, but he was pretty damn sure it was because of his status as a Nation. Enjolras would be absolutely ecstatic if he knew about this ability. He would surely see it as an opportunity to collect more people for his revolution. Grantaire made a promise to himself that he would keep his casual drinking buddies as far away from the Amis as possible. These young men deserved to live, and they surely wouldn’t if they joined the Amis.

Enjolras would be angry if he found out about this, but then disappointing Enjolras was nothing new to Grantaire.

It was for this same reason that when Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac unexpectedly entered the Corinth one evening that Grantaire immediately knew he couldn’t let them have a chance to speak with his current conversation partners, which were two elderly factory workers who were quite disgusted with the way the country had returned to the rule of a king.

When Courfeyrac spotted him, he gave him his signature grin and waved him over. Grantaire said his goodbyes to the men at the table, who seemed genuinely sad to see him go, and went to join the triumvirate at their table. The three of them appeared to be in good spirits, if not a little pensive in their excitement.

When Enjolras noticed him make his way over his face automatically turned into a frown. This was a typical encounter that shouldn’t have surprised Grantaire, but it still stung. At least Combeferre and Courfeyrac seemed glad to see him.

The table could fit four, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were sitting next to each other, so the only open seat was next to Enjolras. This was problematic for a lot of reasons but the biggest was probably that he had an awful habit of saying stupid things in close proximity to Enjolras. Still, there was nothing for it, so Grantaire swallowed his awkwardness and sat down. As always, Enjolras beat everyone else to speaking.

“Why are you here?” Enjolras hissed.

“I am quite sure I should be asking you that.” Grantaire said, dramatically flourishing his bottle in a way that had Courfeyrac holding in a laugh. “I frequent this establishment. You, on the other hand, do not.”

“It would figure that you came here to get drunk.” Enjolras muttered in disdain.

“What other reason is there to visit a café except for drinks and pleasurable company?” Grantaire asked.

Before Enjolras could respond, Courfeyrac jumped into the conversation. “Speaking of drinks, I will go get us some.”

Enjolras and Combeferre both made sounds of disagreement that Courfeyrac shushed with a wink and a “trust me”.

While Courfeyrac was gone, Grantaire took the opportunity to look at Combeferre and Enjolras more closely. It was very obvious from their state of dress that neither of them quite belonged here. Their clothing marked them as wealthy, from their cleanly washed waistcoats to their shoes that weren’t falling apart in any way. They also held themselves in a particular way, as if they knew their own worth and were unashamed to show it. Grantaire knew them both well enough to know that neither was patronizing and both constantly tried to learn more about the struggles of the poor. But Grantaire also knew that no one else in the building saw them as anything but some condescending rich boys. 

They didn’t belong in this establishment.

Courfeyrac came back with four drinks impressively balanced in his hands, handing one to each of them. Grantaire was only halfway finished with his current one, but he was always grateful for more alcohol and accepted Courfeyrac’s offering with a grin.

Enjolras instead just looked down at his drink and frowned. “I don’t want this.”

“Drink it anyway.” Courfeyrac said, then looked over to Combeferre, “You too.”

“I would prefer it if we were not drunk for this meeting.” Combeferre said.

“It looks suspicious to come in and not order anything, and we are supposed to be undercover.” Courfeyrac replied.

Both Enjolras and Combeferre looked displeased by this; neither were big drinkers, but they began taking a few sips anyway. Grantaire guessed they had seen some sort of logic in Courfeyrac's words. Mostly though Grantaire was intrigued by Combeferre’s comment, what did he mean by undercover?

“A meeting, you say?” Grantaire asked. “What type of meeting would men such as yourselves have in a place such as this?”

As it was, Courfeyrac was the only one of them that fit into the atmosphere of the room. Grantaire suspected he came to places like this himself relatively often if he knew enough to dress down from his normal attire and what behavior would be considered abnormal.

“Nothing you would be interested in.” Enjolras said dismissively. Naturally, that just made Grantaire more curious than ever.

Combeferre, interested in stopping an argument before it began, especially because they were supposed to be undercover, interjected. “We are delivering the letter to someone who works at the Palace.”

Grantaire’s blood ran cold at the thought. “Here?” He asked and received a couple of nods in return. “This is not the type of place for reputable business.”

“Makes it the perfect place then, doesn’t it?” Courfeyrac commented then leaned over the table to whisper to Grantaire, “We’re not here to do reputable business either.”

Courfeyrac then sat back into his chair with a smile. Grantaire wanted to take back what he thought about Courfeyrac understanding this place; he had no idea what he was getting into either. Anyone who wanted to meet here was almost definitely a charlatan and most definitely dangerous. At least none of them had been foolish enough to come alone.

Grantaire wondered how much they were paying this mystery man. They were definitely carrying enough money to make them worth mugging. It was late at night in one of the less nice parts of the city and Grantaire knew then that he was going to be spending the whole evening watching over them till they were all safely back home. It was a shame; he had been looking forward to getting blackout drunk.

“I’m staying with you.”

“You’re not.” Enjolras said.

Grantaire was suddenly reminded of his last conversation with Francis and found the man correct. At this moment he didn’t think he would be able to stay with them if Enjolras ordered him not to. He would do what his people willed. It wasn’t a feeling he liked at all; but he couldn't just leave them alone.

“It is dangerous.” Grantaire explained.

Enjolras just looked even more furious. Grantaire could almost feel the heat of Enjolras’ irritation radiating off of him. Their legs were only inches apart. He had forgotten how hard it was to breathe so close to Enjolras…

“I didn’t expect any of this to be safe.” Enjolras leaned over to hiss into his ear and Grantaire hated himself a little for loving the momentary closeness.

“Stop it. Both of you.” Combeferre said, dragging their attention away from each other. It was funny how every conversation he had with Enjolras made him forget that there were other people around. “There is no reason for Grantaire not to stay.”

“But-“ Enjolras attempted but was struck down by Combeferre.

“He is right that this could be dangerous, and he knows how to fight.” Combeferre said, looking at Enjolras. He then turned to Grantaire and continued. “And we are aware that this is dangerous. We are choosing to do it anyways. But if you wish to go, we wouldn’t hold it against you.”

Grantaire was pretty sure that Enjolras would hold it against him either way. If he left, then he was a coward and if he stayed, he was screwing up their plans and getting in their way. Neither option was good, so Grantaire picked the one less likely to end with his friends dead in the morning.

“No worries,” Grantaire winked at Enjolras, “I am not going anywhere.”

Enjolras crossed his arms and let out a huff but otherwise didn’t respond. Grantaire took that as a victory, or at least the closest to a victory that Grantaire ever got with him.

Now that Grantaire knew what was going on, he knew he should do his best to remain sober for the length of their meeting. He was already drunker than he wished to be for this situation, luckily it took a lot to make a Nation truly drunk. He slowed down his drinking to only a sip every few minutes to keep up appearances, seemingly the same thing that the others were doing.

“Who is this man you are waiting for?” Grantaire asked. “How did you find him?”

“I don’t know anything about him other than the fact that he was recommended to us by the last person we used to get a letter to France,” Combeferre said. “France was trying to come to us, that means he must have gotten the letter.”

Grantaire knew France probably didn’t receive the letter and whoever they hired last time was likely just as surprised as the Amis were about its supposedly successful delivery. That was surely why he had recommended someone else rather than come again himself; afraid of being caught in his lie.

During a lull in the conversation, Courfeyrac began to regale him with a story about his latest mistress: it was a story that Combeferre had clearly already heard and Enjolras didn’t approve of, but it was exactly the kind of conversation topic that was common in the Corinth so it did well at keeping suspension from coming their way. Courfeyrac didn’t get to finish his story, but Grantaire was pretty sure it ended with him and his lady friend in bed together, as most of his endeavors did.

They were interrupted by a man in his early thirties who pulled up a chair to join their table. He wasn’t wearing fancy clothes and didn’t look anything like someone who supposedly worked at the Palace, but he introduced himself as such. He was also with certainty not one of Grantaire’s people. This put Grantaire on edge, no one who wasn’t a republican would be here with the purpose of helping the revolution.

Unfortunately, Grantaire could hardly announce that this man was a fraud not loyal to the revolution without evidence. Instead, he just slid the man the unopened bottle Courfeyrac had gotten for him. Maybe they could succeed in getting the man drunk enough to tell his own secrets.

“I must admit I am impressed by all the work you have done so far,” the man said. “I can tell you are the real type of revolutionary, not just the people who sit in a room complaining about change but doing nothing to bring it to fruition.”

Enjolras nodded furiously at this, excited by the compliment. “I can assure you; we plan to do everything in our power to bring the monarchy down.”

Enjolras’ voice had gotten louder with each word, a show of his passion. Combeferre had to grab Enjolras’ arm to remind him not to speak of illegal deals loudly in a public place. Enjolras quieted down but didn’t look the least bit ashamed.

The man said all the right things. He quietly quoted Robespierre and a bit of Thomas Paine. He sounded like what Grantaire imagined a revolutionary would sound like to a person who couldn’t feel someone’s loyalty in their bones. But Grantaire could feel a person’s revolutionary spirit and this man lacked it.

Despite his pretty words, every part of this man rang disingenuous to Grantaire. He doubtlessly gambled more than Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras combined, but how could they not catch this man’s lies? They were all such smart men, surely they must know they are being fooled-

He realized suddenly that they didn’t believe in this man either. They just didn’t care if he was faking it. They were so hung up on this letter, they placed so much hope in being able to contact Francis that they were willing to try things they knew wouldn’t work.

Humans were so complicated.

About an hour into their discussion, they finally began to discuss the letter.

“Please understand,” the man said, “I don’t want to take your money, but if I do this, I may lose my job. I need to be able to support myself.”

If he actually did what he was paid to do, it was more likely he would lose his head than his job, but Grantaire kept this thought to himself.

Combeferre gave a placating smile. “We understand.”

Enjolras began to reach into his pocket, probably to pull out the letter but was stopped by the man.

“Not here.” the man said. “There are too many witnesses here. Let’s go outside where it is quieter?”

This was an extremely suspicious request that made Grantaire even more nervous than before. The Corinth was not the type of place where people paid attention to your shadier dealings. There was no reason to not do their exchange here. Luckily the other three also found the request odd and proceeded with hesitance.

“I don’t think anyone is watching us.” Courfeyrac said with fake cheer.

“You never know what type of people you will come across in a place like this.” The man had begun to nervously tug at the button on his coat.

Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras seemed to be having some sort of nonverbal conversation that Grantaire wished he could be a part of.

“Well then,” Enjolras said finely, decision made, “Let’s go. It is rather late in the evening after all.”

Grantaire didn’t like this, but if nothing else if this went bad the odds were in their favor. It was four against one and Grantaire was a Nation, strong and fast. It if came down to it he knew he could protect them from this at least.

Outside there was only a slight breeze. Summer was coming soon and with it came a sticky heat. The streets of Paris were mostly empty except for a few random people making their way home in the dark. They walked a few blocks in silence until they found themselves in an empty street. Grantaire watched the man closely.

Enjolras reached into his pocket then and took out two envelopes, handing them both to the man.

“This one is to be delivered to France himself,” Enjolras said, “the other is your payment.”

Grantaire noticed that none of them had invited the man to come to future Les Amis meetings. A small detail but further proof that they all sensed this man was a liar.

“Thank you for all your help.” Combeferre gave a sweet smile that only people who knew him would recognize as fake. “We hope to hear from you again.” A complete lie, Grantaire was sure.

The man opened his coat to slide the envelopes into his inside pocket. It was then that Grantaire saw it, the small shine of metal reflecting from the streetlamps. Grantaire wasn’t sure if the man actually intended to use it or not, but he was instantly on alert. The man had seen where his eyes had landed and quickly grabbed the gun, pulling it out of his coat.

Grantaire quickly moved to stand in front of the others. Combeferre moved past Grantaire with his hands in front of him in an attempt to calm the man.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Combeferre said calmly, “No one needs to be hurt.”

Grantaire could see indecision flicker on the man’s face. His eyes darted between each of them and his grip on the gun tightened.

Maybe it was a stupid thing to do, but Grantaire loved these humans far too much to let a twitchy man end them like this. Grantaire used his Nation speed to push the three of them to the ground and out of the line of fire. He heard his friends’ whine of pain but ignored it. The man looked confused but only for a moment because then Grantaire was charging him and trying to grab the gun out of his hands.

It had been a bit too long since he had tried to use his Nation speed. Perhaps if he had been in practice, he would have been faster. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have been shot.

The man looked at him in horror for a moment then began to run off as fast as he could.

Grantaire heard Enjolras scream and quickly turned around to see if he was okay. Enjolras didn’t look okay, he looked pale and scared. Grantaire tried to take a step towards him, but his legs gave out beneath and he fell to the street.

It had been a long time since he was shot; he had forgotten how much it hurt. This wasn’t the most painful death he had ever had though… but then Enjolras’ face flickered into his line of vision. It was dark and Grantaire could barely make out the features of his face, but he could see the tears in his eyes and maybe this was his worst death after all, because what could be worse than making Enjolras cry?

He felt a sudden stab of pain as Combeferre put pressure on his stomach with enough force to make him want to vomit. Grantaire wanted to tell Combeferre not to bother, that he knew deadly wounds and there was nothing that could be done but all that left his mouth was an unintelligible gurgle. The poor man was only a medical student, he probably had never even lost a patient yet. How sad for him that the first person to die under his hands would be a friend.

Hopefully Courfeyrac would be there to remind him it wasn’t his fault. Speaking of Courfeyrac, Grantaire didn’t know where the man was. It was hard to see and keeping his eyes open was becoming more difficult as the seconds went by. Grantaire hoped Courfeyrac was okay and hadn’t done something stupid like chase the man down.

Grantaire was dying, except he wasn’t, not really. He would come back from this same as always, no matter how little he wanted to.

Grantaire couldn’t help but think this was the ideal way to die. He had saved his friends, or at least tried to, and Enjolras was there with him. Enjolras was stroking his cheek with a softness that none of their previous encounters had even contained.

And Grantaire would be okay with dying like this. With having his final death be like this.

But he knew better than to think fate would grant him his wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes:**  
>  Thomas Paine was a political activist who wrote _Rights of Man_ , a book about, well, the rights of people. It was written in defense of the French revolution, specifically against Edmund Burke's _Reflections on the Revolution in France_. He moved to Paris in 1792 to oversee the French translation and help with the revolution. He was later arrested for treason because he was a proud opposer of the death penalty, and if you didn’t know, France was sentencing a lot of people to the death penalty then. He escaped death for himself and moved back to America. 
> 
> Surprisingly, he never stopped supporting the French Revolution, but he did also (kind of) support Napoleon. As in, he didn’t like the guy, specifically his authoritarianism, but he really wanted the French to invade Britain and destroy the monarchy. He didn’t speak out against Napoleon till he was back in America. He was a controversial writer in France (because of the treason thing), but even more so when he published _The Age of Reason_ , which essentially denounced the church (although, _The Age of Reason_ didn't actually do very well in France). But even so he did have quite the effect on France during the revolution.
> 
> TLDR; He wrote books that were a part of the French revolution, and it is not only possible, but probable, that the Amis would have read his works and discussed his writing, but he is not mentioned in the brick, at least as far as I remember.
> 
> **Fandom Notes:**  
>  What specific skills the Nations in Hetalia have is kind of vague (like everything in that show tbh), so we don’t know exactly what they can do. We do know that they are stronger than humans and are quite capable of taking a beating. The general consensus is that they are better than humans at everything, running, seeing, hearing, strength, ect, and that is the headcanon I am using in this fic.
> 
> **Author’s notes:**  
>  The Corinth isn’t that shady in the brick but… I needed a shady bar and it was either make up one or use the Corinth, so I used the Corinth.
> 
> Referring to the Amis as “republicans” fills me with dread, but in the interest of historical accuracy, there it is.
> 
> Combeferre and Enjolras are bad at undercover work. They are just too _honest_ for it. You can fight me on this point.
> 
> Enjolras wanted to protect Grantaire. He knew what they were doing was dangerous, but unlike Courfeyrac and Combeferre, Grantaire doesn't believe in their cause, or so he thinks at least. So Enjolras doesn’t feel right putting him in a dangerous position, thus he wanted Grantaire to leave. At least that is how I intended it, but read it however you want, all interpretations are valid.
> 
> Also, I am really sorry about what happened in this chapter, but I promise it gets better?
> 
> [here](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/) is my blog! And [here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog! Feel free to talk to me about this fic, my others or anything else!
> 
> Oh and I will be posting a oneshot tomorrow! Thank you for reading, I will see you next week!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this earlier in the day, but I had an assignment for school I had to finish first. Sorry about that! But I do have good news! I finished chapter 18 and I am almost done with chapter 19. This fic is almost 60k words now, and I have 6 chapters left to write, so I figure the final word count will be about 75-80k? Wow, I cannot believe I am writing this much...
> 
> **Warnings:**  
>  Discussion of death  
> Vaguely suicidal thoughts
> 
> My amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/) and [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet)! <3

Grantaire woke up, which wasn’t great news.

He was really hoping to not wake up, but he couldn’t really say he was surprised by this development. He didn’t suspect he would be allowed to leave this Earth till the spirit of revolution in France was quieted. With the Amis still alive and active, Grantaire knew this day hadn’t come yet.

The sheet that laid over his body wasn’t a surprise either, but the bed beneath him was.

Grantaire carefully stretched out, testing his limbs and was pleasantly surprised to find that they were working and only a little stiff. He hesitantly sat up and pulled the sheet down from his face so he could see the room he was in.

Grantaire recognized the room, which was very bad news.

This was Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s apartment. If a sheet was over his head, then they must have thought he was dead. A logical conclusion to make considering he probably hadn't been breathing, but he was going to have a lot of trouble explaining why he was breathing  _ now _ .

Grantaire looked down at himself. There was a bullet hole in his waistcoat, it was burnt at the edges and  his clothes were caked with dried blood . Yet his skin was clean, unmarred by any injury. Yes, he was going to have a dreadful time explaining this…

Grantaire got out of bed as quietly as he could manage and made his way to the door, cursing every squeaky floorboard. He placed his ear up against the wall near the door, hoping to hear what was happening in the rest of the apartment. With his advanced Nation hearing he could make out some shuffling in the rooms beyond, but he couldn’t be sure if that was this apartment or the one next door.

Grantaire didn’t know what time of day it was, he didn’t know how long he had been dead for, but he knew it was unlikely he had been left alone, dead, in Joly’s bed. Which meant someone was probably here. He doubted who ever it was would just let him walk out without asking questions he had no answers to- or more accurately- no good answers to.

Even if he got out of the apartment unseen, his clothes were stained with blood, which would attract many questions and he would likely be stopped by the police. He could steal some clothes from Joly or Bossuet. He didn’t like the idea of taking things from his friends, but this was a rather desperate situation, and surely they would understand… except they wouldn’t. Because even if he miraculously got away without attracting their attention, his friends would surely notice that his dead body had gone missing.

And would doing all this even matter? Could he really fake his death? Could he really stay away from his people? He didn’t think he could. He always managed to find himself in the thick of revolutionaries; that was where he belonged.

Francis said it got easier to be away from your people over time but… Grantaire didn’t want to be away from his people. He wanted to be with them, his whole being longed to exist side by side with them.

Grantaire was starting to feel sick and his head was hurting the way it always did when he came back to life. Grantaire managed to get back to the bed and sit down. His breathing was coming out in harsh pants. He didn’t know what to do.

He was so fucking screwed.

Before he could panic any more, he heard rustling from the other side of the door. He could hear the footsteps getting closer, then the door cracked open. He didn’t know what he expected but the sight of Joly standing in the doorway still broke his heart. He looked ragged and had aged years in what could only have been about a day. His whole face was red, and his eyes were puffy like he had been crying for hours.

Joly looked over towards him and for a brief moment their eyes met. Grantaire could see a million different emotions running through his eyes, but his face stayed completely blank. Grantaire knew he had to say something but had no idea what.

“It's good to see you.” Grantaire found the words leaving his mouth without his consent. He found it was true though, he was glad to see Joly. Dying was always a scary experience and Joly was one of his best friends, wasn’t it normal to be glad to see him again? Apparently, Joly wasn’t as glad to see him, because he just turned around and walked out the door.

It was so sudden that Grantaire would have been offended on any other day. But he had died a few hours ago, so he supposed Joly did deserve a break. Grantaire got up and quietly followed Joly out of the room. From his vantage point in the doorway to the bedroom Grantaire saw Joly leaning into Musichetta’s embrace. He could hear the hiccups that accompanied Joly’s tears and the soft, sweet words Musichetta whispered back to him.

“I’m hallucinating him now,” Joly whimpered.

Joly’s voice managed to make Grantaire feel terrible for hurting him like this. They were so caught up in each other that he could probably walk past them without being noticed, but then Joly would likely convince himself that he had some sort of strange illness of the mind.

Grantaire tried to be as calm as possible so as not to startle them, but he knew there was no way they weren’t going to be startled by this. “Joly? Musichetta?”

Both their heads immediately snapped back to him. There was a moment of awkward silence before Musichetta screamed. She was apparently the type of person who immediately jumped into action because not a moment later a bottle slammed into him, shattering into hundreds of glass shards. Grantaire couldn’t help but shout out in pain as the glass hit him.

“Please don’t throw things at me!” Grantaire yelled.

Not one to be deterred, she picked up another bottle off the table and made a move to throw that one at him too. She only stopped because Joly had grabbed her arm.

She turned to Joly and hissed, “It’s a demon.”

Grantaire supposed that was as valid an explanation as any considering he had just come back to life, but it was still a bit offensive.

“I’m not a demon, I’m a Nation!” Grantaire said, extending his open hands in an effort to calm them. He had begun to bleed in the places where the glass had hit him. It hardly mattered, though: it was already beginning to heal over, and it was not like these clothes could get any more stained anyway.

They both turned to look at him then, and it felt like he was being inspected; Grantaire was afraid he would be found lacking in some way. Musichetta put the bottle back down though, so Grantaire figured he had at least gained a little bit of ground. He noticed then that Musichetta looked just as bad as Joly, exhausted and red in the face. It was surprising he didn’t think Musichetta would cry for him. Perhaps it was stupid, but she always seemed too headstrong to cry over anyone, let alone a disaster of a person like him.

“Which Nation are you?” Musichetta asked. Grantaire was pretty sure she already knew the answer to that question; she could probably sense it. She was one of his people too, after all.

“I am the French Revolution.” Grantaire said under a pretense of casualness, he gave a shrug of his shoulders. 

He was going for nonchalant, like it wasn’t a big deal, like it didn’t change everything. He was hoping that his casual attitude would put them both at ease. It seemingly didn’t work, because poor Joly looked ready to collapse.

Musichetta took Joly’s arm and guided him into a chair in the kitchen. Joly kept his head down, but Grantaire thought he could see tears in his eyes again. Musichetta sat down in the chair right next to Joly, who hovered close by.

“Musichetta,” Joly said in a small voice, “I think I am hallucinating again.”

Musichetta placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “If it makes you feel any better, I think I am having the same hallucination as you.”

Joly finally looked up again, but it was only to give Musichetta a tired smile. “That doesn’t make me feel any better, one of us needs to stay sane.”

She let out a quick laugh that was the first bit of happiness that Grantaire had seen since waking up. “It is a good thing we have Bossuet then, isn’t it?”

They both turned to look at Grantaire who was standing awkwardly in their hallway, unsure of what to do.

“If you're really here, pull up a seat and talk to us.” Musichetta said, gesturing to one of the empty chairs.

Grantaire was going to be forever grateful of Musichetta’s straightforwardness. He took the chair on the other side of Joly. He wanted to be supportive, but he feared he might just make them uncomfortable by sitting too close, so he made sure to keep some distance between them. This proved to be completely pointless because a moment later the reality seemed to sink in and Joly was jumping out of his chair and throwing his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders.

Grantaire was surprised but he couldn’t help but melt into the embrace. From the moment he had woken up he had been nervous and unsure what to do, it felt good to have a friend he could lean on.

“You're really alive.” Joly’s grip around him was tight, like he was afraid Grantaire would die again if he let go. Grantaire was pretty sure Joly had started to cry again but he wasn’t going to mention it.

Grantaire looked up over Joly’s shoulder at Musichetta who was watching them both with a curious expression on her face. Grantaire imagined she didn’t know what to think and he certainly couldn’t blame her.

Grantaire wasn’t sure how long he held onto Joly, but he could tell it was a healing moment for both of them. Eventually Joly did let go but he continued to look at Grantaire like he was some kind of miracle.

“Oh god, you're so bloody.” Joly said, his usual tendency towards cleanliness finally taking over as he began looking for something to clean them both off with. Musichetta knew Joly well and left to return with a towel he could use to get the dried, flaky blood off of his hands. When he finished, Joly offered the towel to Grantaire, but he didn’t see what a dry towel could really do for him considering he, unlike Joly, he was completely covered in dried blood. He took the towel anyway, if only to make Joly feel better.

“So, you’re a Nation?” Musichetta asked. Grantaire wasn’t sure what else to do, so he simply nodded.

“You’re the French Revolution?” Joly asked next. Grantaire didn’t like calling himself that, but it was accurate, so he just nodded again.

“But you died! I saw it, I checked for myself. You were dead I was sure of it!” Joly said, unconcealed confusion in his tone. “Nations don’t die. They can’t. Not from a gunshot wound at least.”

“Nations can die, and they do.” Grantaire corrected. He understood where this misconception came from, but it was hard to correct when he didn’t know that much about Nations himself. “When a Nation’s body is damaged, they ‘die’ while their body fixes itself and then come back to ‘life’ when it is healed over. As far as permanent death goes, that happens when the thing a Nation personifies disappears.”

They seemed to be mulling the information over in their heads, unsure of what to do next. Grantaire decided to use this opportunity to get some information of his own.

“What time is it?”

“It is around six now.” Musichetta said.

Grantaire turned to Joly. “If I am remembering correctly, you have class right now normally.”

Joly gave a humorless laugh. “I had more important things to do today than class.” Grantaire probably should have thought of that.

They fell into a silence with only the sounds of the family in the apartment next to them filling the space. The silence reminded Grantaire of what was missing here.

“Where is Bossuet?” Grantaire asked.

Joly’s eyes snapped open like he too only just remembered important information. “The Amis are holding an emergency meeting right now. That’s where Bossuet is. We need to tell the others that you are okay!”

Grantaire really didn’t like where this was going, although he needed to handle the most important thing first. “Is everyone else safe? I was with Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac when I was shot.”

“Everyone else is fine.” Joly gave him a gentle smile. “You were the only one hurt.”

That was a relief. If one of them was hurt then all this would have been for nothing, but…

“I take that to mean everyone thinks I am dead?” Grantaire asked.

“You  _ were _ dead.” Joly frowned at him, “They came in the middle of the night and left your body here, we- “

Joly cut himself off and Grantaire thought he might begin to cry again. Musichetta moved closer putting her arms around him, the gesture seemed to settle him, and he was able to continue.

“Yes, I think most of us already know by now.” Joly answered. “The only reason I am still here is because I was going to clean your body for burial.”

A kind gesture, but Grantaire knew he didn’t have enough money saved away for a burial even if he had been truly dead. It wouldn’t have been a real problem though; Nations don’t leave bodies behind. Instead, they turn to dust and return to the land they once personified. Or at least that is what the books said. Grantaire had never asked Francis about this.

This was quite the problem. He couldn’t go back to his old life now, not without telling all his friends that he was a Nation. He either had to own up to his existence or run off and start over somewhere else.

In the end it wasn’t even a debate really. He couldn’t leave. Paris was his home and his people were his blood.

“Well then, I’m going to have to tell everyone the truth, aren’t I?”

“Were you considering  _ not _ telling the truth?” Joly asked, “What lie could you possibly give that would explain this.”

Grantaire didn’t want to admit that he  had been thinking more about running than lying. From the look Musichetta was giving him though, she had picked up on this even if Joly didn’t.

It was then that Joly seemed to have another sudden realization.

“My God, you were shot.” Joly said in horror, “You’re injured! Let me look at you.”

Joly jumped out of his chair to begin examining Grantaire. He pressed his hands all over Grantaire’s torso like he was looking for where the blood had come from, but Grantaire knew he wouldn’t find anything. The injury was long healed by now.

“I’m fine, Joly.” Grantaire laughed. “No need to worry. Nations heal fast.”

Telling Joly not to worry was an incredibly pointless endeavor because the man just leveled Grantaire with a firm stare. “Take off your shirt.” Joly ordered, and Grantaire was smart enough to comply. Nobody argued with Joly about medical procedures. Nobody.

While Grantaire took off the top half of his clothing, Joly went to fetch a bucket of water that was sitting on the counter. It was probably the water that Joly had been planning to use to clean his dead body. Grantaire grimaced, it was probably better not to think about this.

A quietness took over the room and Joly began to look him over. Grantaire wasn’t sure what he could say to make this situation less awkward. He certainly didn’t know what he would say to the rest of the Amis…

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.” Grantaire admitted, “I could just show up at the meeting, but I think that might just end up giving them all heart attacks.”

Joly grimaced. “It would be preferable if you avoided that. There is only one of me to take care of all of you.”

Joly took a wet towel and began to clean off Grantaire’s skin. It was rather nice of him, but Grantaire was capable of doing it on his own.

“Perhaps while I am looking you over, Musichetta can go to the Musain and let everyone know?” Joly suggested.

“Me?” Musichetta asked, “That’s insane. They would never believe me. They would think I had gone hysterical in my grief.”

“Actually, they would almost certainly believe you.” Grantaire said. They both looked confused at this so Grantaire attempted to explain. “You both believed me immediately because you are both one of my-” Grantaire was going to say ‘people’ but then realized they might not understand what that meant. “You are both believers in the revolution.”

She still looked incredulous, but Grantaire was unsure how to better explain it. They believed something so extraordinarily unlikely just because he said it was true- well, that and because they had seen him dead a little while ago. In all his life he has never had one of his people not believe him when he told them what he was. He had told only a few people over his lifetime, but they all believed him without any evidence at all. He thought this was due to the connection between a Nation and their people; some instinctual part of them just  _ knew _ .

“They will believe you.” Grantaire said resolutely.

“Do you really want me to go speak to them for you?” Musichetta asked.

“Well I certainly don’t want to be the one to tell them,” Grantaire said with a shrug. Joly frowned at him for moving while he was still busy looking for a wound that wasn’t even there anymore. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to get anymore glass thrown my way. And God knows there’s a lot of throwable glass in the Musain.”

Musichetta’s face colored with embarrassment, “Sorry about that.”

Grantaire just laughed, “I am pretty sure I had it coming.”

It would take Grantaire a while to clean up and get dressed in clothing not stained in blood. Also, he was sure Joly wasn’t letting him out of his sight until he had been given a full checkup. Grantaire knew he wasn’t leaving this apartment till Joly was satisfied that he was in perfect health.

Musichetta then excused herself and left the apartment so that Joly could get a look at his lower half. This, in Grantaire’s admittedly medically-ignorant opinion, was unnecessary because he wasn’t even injured there, but Joly was the professional here. Grantaire knew it would be faster if he just did as he was told.

It was sometime later that Grantaire was clean and declared healthy by Joly that he was allowed to get dressed again. His own clothes were ruined so Joly allowed him to take some of his. He really was a better friend than Grantaire deserved. Right as they were about to leave, Joly turned to him, oddly serious in demeanor.

“You could have told us.” Joly said. He didn’t sound angry or upset with Grantaire, but he did sound disappointed. Grantaire wasn’t sure but he thought that might actually be worse. Joly was right in that there was nothing physically stopping him from telling them, he could have told them. But he had about a hundred and one reasons to keep it a secret.

Grantaire didn’t know what to say back, so he didn’t say anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes:**
> 
> Believing in the supernatural or demons would have been pretty normal for this time period. I think this would be even more prevalent in a universe where supernatural beings (the Nations) literally exist and are common knowledge. Musichetta assuming that Grantaire was a demon is way more logical than thinking he is a Nation because, there are, as far as they know at least, a fixed number of Nations and he is not one of them. So I feel like her knee jerk assumption is totally logical. Also I love her.
> 
> Unfortunately, women really were diagnosed with ‘hysterical’ back then. It was considered to be a mental disorder. The symptoms included everything from anxiety, shortness of breath, fainting, nervousness, sexual desire, insomnia, irritability, loss of appetite for food or sex, sexually forward behaviour, and a "tendency to cause trouble for others." So basically… everything? Essentially, women were not allowed to exist back then. TLDR; Musichetta was valid in her concern over being assumed to be hysterical for claiming Grantaire is actually alive and a Nation. In 1980, it was removed from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
> 
> **Fandom Notes:**
> 
> What happens to Nations when they die is a bit complicated because canon doesn’t give us a straight answer. Essentially, one of a few different things can happen. This next part is going to be Hetalia lore, and might be a spoiler? If you would rather be surprised, don’t read it.
> 
> A few Hetalia characters have died and the way they die is pretty different each time. The Roman Empire died from a wound given to him by Germania (who died himself shortly after), it is unknown what happened to his body. I really like the headcanon that their bodies return to the land they personified, so I used it. A few other characters have died this way too, it is assumed they were unable to heal because the countries they were personifying either no longer existed or were falling apart. But, of course, it can’t be that simple. The micronation of Niko Niko Republic turned into a normal human when his Nation ceased to exist. A similar thing appears to have happened to Prussia as well. I suppose the best assumption to make is that they became human because their countries no longer exist, but unlike the above characters, they were not injured? Like I said before, canon is convoluted at best and no good answers are given.
> 
> **Author’s notes:**
> 
> See! I kept my promise! Things are already getting better! Or at least Grantaire is alive, so that's something? 
> 
> One of the things I was most excited to write in this AU was the Amis finding out about Grantaire, and how they would react to it. Also Joly is such a good friend.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I will see you next week!
> 
> [here](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/) is my blog! And [here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog! Feel free to talk to me about this fic, my others or anything else!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit late again, I am sorry I had a busy day yesterday. I need to try and be more on schedule. But on the bright side, this chapter is longer than normal!
> 
> **Warnings:**
> 
> Discussion of death  
> Discussion of unethical police behavior 
> 
> My amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/) and [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet)! They make my writing so much better and encourage me to keep writing, I really can’t thank them enough!!

Joly’s apartment was the closest to the Corinth, doubtlessly why he had been brought there. Grantaire knew this, yet he still felt unprepared to walk by the place he had been shot just last night. He felt some lingering resentment towards this patch of land, however ridiculous such a thing was. 

Joly noticed the way he stiffened and looked over at him. Grantaire just shook it off and kept walking at an even pace. Grantaire could tell Joly wanted to speak, to ask questions, but he kept quiet. Joly knew him well enough by now to tell when he wasn't in the mood to talk.

Grantaire appreciated the quiet; he didn’t know what he was going to do or say yet, but he really didn’t want to have to repeat himself. He could only hope that Musichetta had gone ahead and softened the blow for him. A coward’s way out, perhaps, but Grantaire had never been very brave. Not like the Amis, his people, who risked their lives knowing their deaths wouldn’t be so easily reversed. 

The walk was silent and awkward, Grantaire both wanted it to end and dreaded what came when they arrived. A reprieve came in the form of Feuilly waving at them from across the street. He had a carefree smile on his face and a relaxed posture. It was obvious that no one had told him about Grantaire’s ‘death’ yet, or he wouldn’t be so calm about seeing him alive and well. It made sense: the man worked long hours and no one would have been able to talk to him till the evening.

“Good evening,” Feuilly said, making his way over to them. “How have you been?”

That was a good question, one that Grantaire didn’t have an answer to. How was he? Well, he had died yesterday and his whole life of carefully built lies was about to come tumbling down, but other than that he was fine.

“As well as can be expected.” Grantaire replied vaguely. Joly looked at him with incredulity.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Joly said, which was an understatement of a lifetime.

Feuilly frowned at Joly as they began walking again. “Did something happen?”

“You could say that.” Joly gave a somber laugh in lieu of an answer.

Joly was looking at Grantaire again, as if he was asking for permission to say more. Grantaire figured the polite thing to do was save Joly the awkwardness, especially considering he had done so much for him already. It didn’t matter anyway; they would all know soon enough. If Musichetta had done as she said she would, then the cat was already out of the bag. It was a question of minutes, and Grantaire figured that he might as well tell Feuilly now.

“I’m a Nation.” Grantaire said, stopping in his tracks. This confession wasn’t any easier the second time. Maybe he would be lucky, and the next would be better, third time's a charm? “I am fine now, but I got shot last night so now everyone thinks I’m dead.”

Grantaire only turned to look at Feuilly after his string of nonsense words left his mouth. He was looking at Grantaire with so much disbelief Grantaire thought that he might have been wrong in his belief that his people always instinctively knew what he was. Joly looked similarly surprised, but Grantaire was quite sure that was just because he was shocked Grantaire had just said all of that in one sentence. It was a feat, indeed.

“I realise this must be hard to believe,” Grantaire said. He looked down at his shuffling feet, he couldn’t find it in himself to look at the disbelief on Feuilly’s face anymore.

When Feuilly finally spoke, it was quiet and full of contemplation. “That both explains so much and so little.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure what Feuilly meant by that. He was going to ask but Feuilly had begun walking again and Grantaire ran to catch back up. Poor Joly was lagging behind them both with his cane because of his bad leg.

“Feuilly?” Grantaire asked. “What do you mean by that? Are you not surprised?” Feuilly had looked so surprised only moments before but now seemed so calm.

“I just mean that some things you say make more sense now. Others make less sense.” Feuilly shrugged. “And I am surprised, but at the same time I feel as if I should’ve seen this coming.”

“I know what you mean, Feuilly.” Joly said, having caught up to them. “It is strange, but I felt the same way when he first said it.”

Grantaire didn’t know what they meant, perhaps the feeling they referred to was something intrinsically human and beyond his grasp. He was mostly just glad that Feuilly didn’t seem upset, it gave him some hope that perhaps everything would turn out alright after all.

“We should hurry,” Feuilly said. “I am sure there is going to be a lot to discuss tonight.”

The crowd in the Musain tonight was normal and none of them attracted much attention when they entered; the people who frequented this place were used to seeing their faces. As they made their way closer to the backroom, Grantaire could hear the voices of the Amis conversing loudly.

Grantaire was then struck with a sudden nervousness and the desire to run. Telling Joly and Musichetta had been hard, but necessary, he couldn’t have run. Telling Feuilly had been difficult. Telling all of them - standing before all of them as he truly was? He didn’t see how he could do it. Joly put a comforting arm around his shoulders, the warmth of it was calming. He was reminded then why the Musain was the homiest place he had ever been to; it was where he and his friends met.

“Everyone is going to be so happy to see that you are alright,” Joly said.

“I know I was happy to hear you are alright and I didn’t even know you were hurt,” Feuilly joked.

They both probably would have said more to comfort him, but someone must have heard them speaking because the door to the backroom opened and Bahorel stuck his head out.

“You’re really here,” Bahorel said, unconcealed wonder in his tone.

Grantaire couldn’t think of a response, so he just waved awkwardly at Bahorel. Luckily, Bahorel saved him from having to think of anything intelligent to say by barreling into him at high speed. Soon he was enveloped in a strong hug. Bahorel’s embrace was tight and warm and Grantaire found himself relaxing into it. It was a shame he didn’t get to enjoy it for long.

Courfeyrac followed Bahorel out and quickly ushered the four of them inside. Grantaire only caught a glimpse of Courfeyrac’s face as he was steered inside but it was enough to bring back the dread. Grantaire had never seen Courfeyrac like this. There was no twinkle in his eye, no joke on his lips or swagger in his step, just a cold solemn frown as he closed the door behind them.

The room looked the same as normal, the tables and chairs in the same place, the same number of candles lighting up the room, but somehow, everything was different. He wasn’t greeted with a lighthearted cheer and he wasn’t filled with the warmth that usually came with being surrounded by his people.

He felt all the eyes in the room on him. He wasn’t sure where he wanted to look but his body seemed to decide for him; His eyes met Enjolras’ without his consent; he always seemed to know where Enjolras was, his body angling itself in Enjolras’ direction of its own accord.

Enjolras was in the center of the room, his feet halfway through a step -he had been pacing- but stopped when Grantaire entered the room. He looked frazzled, as though he hadn’t slept. His hair was a mess, his cravat was nearly undone and his shoulders sagged in defeat like he had been carrying some great weight. Had Grantaire made Enjolras look like that?

Then Enjolras looked back at him and his face changed. There was incredulity in his eyes, like he didn’t know what to think. Who would have guessed that it was possible to make the verbose Enjolras not know what to think? Enjolras opened his mouth like he was about to speak but he didn’t get the chance.

Jehan barreled past Enjolras and threw himself at Grantaire, who was almost knocked to the ground from the sudden weight in his arms. He managed to keep his balance by taking a step back and kept them both standing. This was his third hug in only a few hours. Logically, he should be getting used to it but the only thing he felt was a growing confusion.

Why wasn’t Jehan angry with him? Grantaire supposed that Jehan wasn’t the type to hold grudges against anyone but… Jehan was clinging to him with reckless abandon. Jehan’s head was tucked into his neck and Grantaire felt something wet on his shoulder. Grantaire put his arms around Jehan and squeezed back. He hated seeing his friends cry, but most of all he hated knowing he was the reason for their tears.

“Share him with everyone, Jehan.” Feuilly said with a smile. He spread out his hands towards Jehan in an offer of comfort.

“The only reason you’re not crying is because you didn’t know he was dead.” Jehan pulled away from Grantaire to pull Feuilly into a hug in turn.

Apparently, tonight was going to be a night for hugs because before Grantaire knew it, Bossuet had grabbed onto him too.

“I can hardly believe my eyes,” Bossuet said. “You look well!”

“I heal fast,” Grantaire said because it was true but also not quite the expected answer.

“I told you I was telling the truth,” Musichetta said from the corner of the room Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire normally sat in.

“I never doubted you, Chetta.” Bossuet finally let go of Grantaire and turned towards Musichetta to assure her. “It is simply something which must be witnessed to be believed.”

Typically, women were not allowed into this room during meetings, but Grantaire knew well she was not leaving here tonight without answers, and when Musichetta set her mind to something, there was no swaying it. It was just as well in Grantaire’s opinion; she deserved to know after the scare he had given her, and he had no interest in doing this conversation a second time with her alone.

Grantaire surveyed the room around him. They were all looking at him, but none of them seemed angry. Jehan still looked a bit distressed, but Bossuet and Bahorel were grinning like mad. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Marius were looking at him curiously but their gazes were devoid of anger. This was already much more than he could have asked for.

Grantaire figured he might as well play it like normal. He went and sat in his usual chair in the corner of the room, right next to Musichetta. There was a bottle there, he wasn’t sure whose it had been, probably Musichetta or Bossuet’s, but it was his now. He picked it up and took a swig savoring the sweetness. The fresh taste was technically the first thing to touch his tongue this life.

“I assume Musichetta let you know I was coming,” Grantaire said, and receiving a few nods in response, “I also assume you have questions?”

There was a bewildered silence that lasted only a moment before the room erupted into a commotion. Grantaire had superior hearing, but it was still hard to make out that many voices at once. He was glad when Combeferre jumped up and took charge of the situation, as he was known to do.

“Everyone wait!” Combeferre said, his voice commanding silence. “We must be logical about this.”

Everyone got quiet then, except for Enjolras who still hadn’t said a word since Grantaire had gotten here. He was watching him, though: the gaze was so intense it made Grantaire shiver and look away.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre said quietly, looking directly at him from across the room, “Are you really a Nation?”

“Yes,” Grantaire said simply because it was as good a starting point as any, “But you must already know that.”

Combeferre looked surprised by this answer. “Because Musichetta told us?”

“Yes, but also because some part of you always knew,” Grantaire said. The sooner they knew the whole truth, the sooner this would all be over. “Even though it seems crazy, all of you believed Musichetta when she told you. You only pretended to be skeptical because you knew that was the reaction that was expected of you.”

The room was still as they all took in what Grantaire had just said, but since no one made any attempt to interrupt, he just kept going. 

“Except Marius, maybe?” Grantaire turned to look at the man in question. Marius looked confused, but in fairness so did everyone else. “You are all a part of the French Revolution. You recognize me as being a part of you- or at least some part of you does.”

“He said about the same thing back at our apartment.” Musichetta added, “He said you would all believe me when I told you.”

Grantaire just shrugged because he didn’t have an answer that humans would understand.

“What do you mean by that?” Marius asked. It was a valid question considering Grantaire had singled him out, but he still didn’t know how to explain it.

“You’re not quite a republican,” Grantaire said, “at least not to the degree that everyone else in this room is.” That was the only way to phrase it he could think of that didn’t bring up Napoleon. Grantaire really wasn’t in the mood to bring up Napoleon today.

“But how?” Courfeyrac asked, cutting off their conversation before it could go any further. He was still frowning, still oddly serious, but at least he seemed calmer now that they were getting answers. “France already has a personification.”

Grantaire didn’t truly understand it himself; the only things he really knew were what Francis had told him and with his own experiences, but he knew he needed to give them something.

“It would probably be more accurate to say he is the personification of the French monarchy.” Grantaire realized his voice sounded unsure and tried to straighten up, so he at least looked like he knew what he was talking about. “He is referred to as ‘France’ because France is currently a monarchy.”

“That’s how you survived the bullet wound?” Combeferre said it like a question, but Grantaire could tell from his face that it was something he was already sure of. Combeferre knew so much about so many odd subjects, Grantaire figured the man was probably an expert in Nations, or as close to an expert a human could ever become. He might even know more than Grantaire; he had never had much interest in the others of his kind and had only even done minimal research on them.

“I didn’t survive. Not technically, at least. I did die. Nations just come back to life so long as their people still exist.” Grantaire countered. Combeferre flinched at the words, probably thinking back to his failed attempts to save Grantaire’s life. Grantaire cursed his inability to be sensitive. When he spoke again it was soft, like a confession. “I am sorry you had to see that.”

“You needn’t apologize.” Combeferre said. “It was hardly your fault. You were protecting us; I understand that now.”

“You knew that man was going to shoot us.” Courfeyrac commented, “How?”

“I didn’t know whether he was going to shoot you. I only knew he wasn’t on our- _ your _ side.” At their questioning looks Grantaire amended himself, “A Nation can sense their people. In my case I can tell if someone is a republican by looking at them.”

Courfeyrac’s eyebrows rose at that, curiosity alleviating the worst of his strict persona. His smirk was something more familiar. “That sounds like a useful skill.”

Grantaire really didn’t want to use this knowledge to drag more of his people to their deaths, so he said nothing at all.

“So, he was a loyalist then?” Combeferre asked.

Grantaire turned back to Combeferre and considered the question. “He definitely wasn’t a republican, but that doesn’t mean he is a loyalist. He was probably just a scam artist luring you out into the dark to mug you.”

“That is what we thought at first as well.” Courfeyrac said, “It was why we followed him in the first place. We figured at worst we were robbed and at best we actually got our letter delivered but… we’re not so sure about that anymore.”

“What do you mean by that?” Feuilly asked from across the room. He was now sitting next to Bahorel and Jehan, watching their discussion with interest. Everyone was devouring the new knowledge Grantaire was giving them.

“That is actually what this emergency meeting was originally about.” Combeferre said. He then looked back to Enjolras, who still hadn’t said anything. The normally passionate man’s silence was grating in a way Grantaire hadn’t expected. He knew Enjolras didn’t like him, but couldn’t he at least speak to him? Combeferre must have gotten something out of Enjolras’ expression, though, because he started speaking again.

“After you… died, the police showed up.” Combeferre said and instantly everyone was on alert. Grantaire, attuned to the emotions of his people, felt his own body temperature drop by a few degrees from the chill of that statement. “They ended up chasing after that man and we ran when we had the chance but… it almost seemed like they were waiting for us.”

“That letter, in the wrong hands, could be used as evidence of treasonous activity.” Courfeyrac added, “Perhaps it is a good thing the letter was written so vaguely after all… but it could still get us all into serious trouble.”

“You think that he was hired by the police to lure you out so that you might do your crime in a public place?” Grantaire asked. It was a sound enough theory; the police were not at all above entrapment.

Courfeyrac nodded in agreement. “We made quite the public stir recently. It is suspicious that this man shows up so soon after that event.”

Everyone was worried about this turn of events, but what was really worrying was the way they all were looking at Grantaire. He didn’t like the way they were turning to him for answers or opinions. He had been dead when all this occurred, how could he know more than them? Grantaire decided on a shrug. “It is possible.”

Combeferre seemed a bit crestfallen when he saw that Grantaire wasn’t going to comment further but held it in so he could continue gaining information. It was obvious he had a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue. It surprised Grantaire then that he managed to contain himself and start with a small question. “How old are you?”

“Around 40 now,” Grantaire said. He could read between the lines of the question, though; it was a polite way of asking if he had been involved in the original revolution. “I don’t know when exactly I came into existence, perhaps May 5, perhaps earlier or maybe even later. I am unsure; like humans, Nations don’t remember much from the first few years of their existence.”

The whole room seemed to take a collective breath at that answer. Grantaire knew he didn’t appear to be any older than perhaps twenty. He vaguely remembered having a smaller body, a child’s body, but those early days were filled with too much blood and anger to be recalled with any clarity.

“You survived all this time?” This time, it was Bahorel who asked with surprise. “But what about Napoleon?”

Why did Napoleon always have to come up?

“Revolutionary spirit can be hard to kill.” Grantaire shrugged again, as he had done so many times already tonight, but he didn’t know how else to respond. “Even under his rule there were some who opposed him. I found my place with them and it kept me alive.”

It wasn’t really a good answer, but for some reason it made Jehan smile warmly at him. Jehan still looked a little pale but the color had begun to return to him, and he no longer looked like he had just been crying.

“Is that why you joined the Amis, Grantaire?” Jehan asked. “To help us?”

Jehan said it in a way that sounded so  _ pure _ , like him being here was a _ good _ thing. Grantaire didn’t want to shatter the illusion, break all the faith Jehan had in him, no matter how misguided it was, but the truth was that wasn’t why he was here at all. He was here because he had nowhere else to go. He was here because his people were here, Enjolras was here. His heart dragged him around and he followed, unable and unwilling to leave. 

“This is where I belong,” Grantaire said simply. Jehan grinned at him, Joly gave his shoulder a squeeze and everyone was smiling at him, like he had said exactly the right thing.

Of course that was the moment Enjolras chose to finally speak. Grantaire felt his heart speed up. He didn’t know what he would do if Enjolras rejected his existence; Enjolras was his heart. Enjolras was his leader. He didn’t know what he would do if he was turned away.

“This is amazing,” was the first thing Enjolras said, and of course it left Grantaire confused. Enjolras walked towards him, his eyes never leaving Grantaire’s. Enjolras had been watching him all night, studying him, as if he were some particularly troubling equation. This was different from that. Now Enjolras looked at him with reverence.

It made Grantaire sick.

“This gives legitimacy to our cause!” Enjolras continued, his presence commanding the room. “This proves that the time of the monarchy is gone and past. The future is sitting right in front of us.”

It struck Grantaire then how much he didn’t want to disappoint them. How much he didn’t want them to see the mess he was, now more than ever.

Was this the responsibility a Nation was normally faced with? They gave him life and he was a symbol of their hope. He couldn’t disappoint them, and yet he knew he would. He was probably the worst person to be born as a Nation. Anyone would do a far better job than him. Why did someone like him have to be born like this? He didn’t deserve their faith. It would be better if he let them down now. Stopped them before they got ideas.

He might be a Nation, but he wasn’t a good one. The sooner they learned that the better they would all be.

“With you here there is no doubt that the people will rally to our cause!”

No. He wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this.

“No,” Grantaire said firmly. “I won’t do that.”

This was the same thing Robespierre had asked of him all those years ago. He had wanted Grantaire to be the face of the revolution. He had wanted Grantaire to stand by his side, a figurehead that justified it all… But Grantaire couldn’t do it then, and he couldn’t do it now. He had seen far too many people die, felt too many of his own die. He will not stand by Enjolras’ side and try to convince innocent people that revolutions are a good thing. He knows they are not.

Everyone was looking at him again. This was hardly distinct from the rest of the evening; everyone had been watching him since he walked in tonight and yet now it somehow burned more. They thought him some kind of savior. The revolution was doomed, he was doomed. He couldn't save them, he couldn't even save himself. He was no savior.

“If I had wanted people to know about me, I would have told people.” Grantaire said, turning to glare at Enjolras. He wouldn’t let them think him something he wasn’t. “I never intended for any of you to know. You only know now because it was unavoidable.”

Enjolras’ face contorted into something more familiar, a scowl of repressed irritation. This, Grantaire knew how to deal with. He would rather deal with the Enjolras who hated him than the Enjolras that revered him. At least angry Enjolras saw him as a person.

“You’re purposefully being difficult.” Enjolras was grinding his teeth together with some barely controlled emotion.

“Revolutions are known for being difficult.” It was a weak comeback, but it succeeded in making Enjolras growl again.

“You are the revolution,” Enjolras said. “Why are you interrupting our plans?”

“I don’t see how I am interrupting any of your plans,” Grantaire countered. “You made your plans before you even knew about me.”

“Our plan was to contact France so that  _ he _ could convince the people to raise. It is obvious now that he is the enemy- “ Enjolras cut himself off as a thought occurred to him and he looked towards Grantaire with suspicion in his eyes, “Why did you let us send letters to him?”

“I don’t  _ let _ you do anything; you always do what you want, Enjolras,” Grantaire responded with heat. He would not take the fall for this bad plan, he hardly had any part in it in the first place. “And for the record, I did tell you it was a bad idea.”

Enjolras frowned in anger at the realization that Grantaire did in fact warn them to not send France letters. He looked agitated. It was the same face he had when he met someone who wasn’t a republican. A mix of confusion and anger at anyone who didn't believe in the Rights of Man.

“Yes,” Enjolras conceded. He turned towards Grantaire, arms outstretched, and for a moment Grantaire thought that they might touch. “But you didn’t tell us why, Revolution- “

“Don’t call me that.” Grantaire jerked back. The moment of closeness was broken, and for what seemed like the hundredth time tonight, Grantaire felt ill. In Enjolras’ eyes Grantaire was his cause. For so long he had longed for Enjolras’ attention but he didn’t want it anymore, not like this…

“You said the other was called France already.” Enjolras continued, unaware of how much his words were hurting Grantaire, unaware that he was talking about him like he was an object. “Do you prefer Republic or- “

“My name is Grantaire.” Grantaire said firmly.

Grantaire’s anger was obvious to everyone in the room, although he doubted any of them quite understood why he was so mad. Most Nations referred to themselves by their country names in public. But that was in public; in private and among friends they used their human names. The Amis were the only family he had; the backroom of the Musain was more a home to him than his own apartment was. He wouldn’t be called his country name here, he wasn't even a real country.

“Perhaps now is a good time to break for the evening,” Combeferre suggested. He was always good at knowing how and when to break Enjolras and Grantaire’s arguments up. It would seem the realisation that Grantaire wasn't quite human hadn't changed anything about that particular talent of Combeferre’s. “Hopefully the next meeting will be less eventful.”

Courfeyrac, catching Combeferre’s line of thought, jumped right in. “Besides, we have something to celebrate tonight!” Courfeyrac ruffled Grantaire’ hair in a way that would be annoying if the man wasn’t so charming or Grantaire’s hair was actually styled in a way that could be messed up at all. As it was, Grantaire’s hair was messy on the best of days. Add in the fact that he had died yesterday, and today was not one of his better hair days. Grantaire playfully pushed Courfeyrac off anyway.

“Grantaire is not dead!” Bahorel announced happily. “We should all get drunk in celebration!”

This statement received some happy cheers from everyone except Enjolras and Combeferre, who had moved out of the way to speak quietly. Grantaire could probably hear them if he tried to listen, but he knew whatever was being said would sadden him more than anything else. When Enjolras turned to look at him, Grantaire quickly averted his eyes, redirecting his gaze toward Joly and Musichetta instead.

Bossuet had come back with multiple drinks, all of which Grantaire gladly accepted. Everyone had gathered around his table, pulling up chairs much closer than they normally sat. Grantaire knew more questions were going to come but he was planning to be very drunk by the time they worked up the courage to ask them. He didn’t need to worry about uncomfortable questions though because the first person to say anything was Feuilly.

“Have you ever met Poland?”

It was such a random and silly question, but also such a Feuilly thing to ask. Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh, it felt like the first time he had smiled today. Maybe his friends knowing the truth didn’t have to be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes:**
> 
> Fun fact, the phrase “letting the cat out of the bag” is over 250 years old.
> 
> The beginning of the french revolution is debated, but May 5 1789 is generally considered to be when it began. This was the day the Estates-General met. The june rebellion was in 1832, so 1832-1789 = 43, thus Grantaire is about 40 years old in this AU.
> 
> This time, I am referring to the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen written during the first French Revolution. But Enjolras would probably be confused by people who don’t believe in The Rights of Man by Thomas Paine too. Refer to my chapter 5 notes for more on him.
> 
> **Fandom Notes:**
> 
> In the brick, women were not allowed into the backroom of the Musain during meetings.
> 
> **Author’s notes:**
> 
> My beta, Elia, mentioned when reading this that Grantaire is actually “brave AF”. I completely agree, but sadly because this whole story is told from Grantaire’s POV, I have to type awful untrue sentences like, “Grantaire had never been very brave.”
> 
> Joly has a bad leg in this fic, because I like the headcanon and no other reason tbh. You can take disabled Joly from my cold dead hands.
> 
> I know it is a bit weird that Marius is here despite not being fully convinced yet, but I like Marius, I couldn't not include him. Also, the idea that Marius just keeps bringing up Napoleon at meetings? Hilarious.
> 
> I imagine Nations would be one of Combeferre’s special interests in this AU. Like they are supernatural beings that are common knowledge. He would read everything about them he could. Also, trying and failing to save his friend’s life probably traumatized Combeferre forever. I am so sorry. Kind of want to write a one shot in this verse about that, but I already wrote a fic with Combeferre dealing with that.
> 
> Nations probably have to be responsible, have public personas, and are never allowed to be distressed when their people can see them. Grantaire kind of gets a taste of that in this chapter, his people are expecting something from him for the first time. But he also rejects that idea, he is, for the most part, unwilling or unable to be what he is expected to be.  
> Feuilly is asking the real questions here. I love him.  
> Thank you for reading, I will see you next week!
> 
> [here](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/) is my blog! And [here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog! Feel free to talk to me about this fic, my others or anything else!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things have changed! Please read the beginning notes!
> 
> I realized I might have been slightly unclear in my tagging, so I am going to straighten that up right now. This fic contains character death, the tag temporary character death might have been confusing and I apologize for that. I will be clear now, there is both temporary character death, and actual character death in this fic. But there is also a happy ending! But if you feel uncomfortable reading that, you should stop now, because the story gets worse before it gets better.
> 
> Secondly, I forgot to tag a trigger when I first posted this fic. You will see that I have added the tag ‘starvation and eating disorder’. Under warnings, you will see some text you can highlight for a specific spoiler warning if you think this might trigger you. Remember your health is the most important thing. If you want more clarification or a summary of this chapter so you skip it, don’t be afraid to message me either here or on either of my tumblrs.
> 
> Lastly, the rating on this fic changed. I originally planned to only imply the E rated scenes, but looking at my outline again, I realized that while I could imply the first sex scene, the second would be hard to imply, so I decided to just write the two planned sex scenes out instead. I realize this might be upsetting for those of you who are either underage or prefer not to read this material, and I apologize for this trouble. I plan to post SFW versions of the E rated chapters on my tumblr, but I make no promises because it may be difficult to cut the content out completely, particularly the second scene. Also don’t expect the sex scenes to be great, I am not very good at writing them.
> 
> **Warnings:**  
>  Starvation/ eating disorder (when the people of a nation are starving, the Nation also starves and feels hungry no matter what they eat.)  
> Suicidal attitude (Grantaire believes the revolution is doomed to fail and he, and the amis, are destined to die. He talks about his death like it is certain and shows no real emotions about it.)  
> Discussion of death  
> Drinking, but not excessively.  
> Discussion of weapons
> 
> My amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/), [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet), and [les Amis DCD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD)

The next time Grantaire entered the Musain, it wasn’t for an Amis meeting, but rather to eat breakfast with Joly and Bossuet. He was a bit anxious to meet with them, and a little terrified to go into the Musain again after last time. Grantaire was a social creature by nature and this place held many happy memories. This was a place he had gone to meet friends and socialize, and Grantaire was going to do everything in his power to keep it from becoming a place he actively avoided, and if that meant a bit of awkwardness, he was willing to plow through it.

It wasn’t awkward, though; no one even paid him any mind when he walked into the building. No one so much as looked at him twice when he bought a bottle of wine and sat himself down at a table to wait for Joly and Bossuet. He was a regular customer, not doing anything out of the ordinary; why would he attract attention? Since his secret had come out, Grantaire had become unnecessarily paranoid about being recognized in public.

It was probably ridiculous; he couldn’t imagine any of the Amis running around sharing this information if for no other reason than because such talk was likely to get them arrested. But still, none of them has promised not to speak of his existence. Grantaire remembered the look in Enjolras’ eye. The man had an idea on how to make his dreams come to fruition and Grantaire doubted that Enjolras would let anyone get in his way.

Grantaire knew that if Enjolras told him to reveal himself, he would do it, officially because Enjolras was his leader and it was his duty to follow, but Grantaire knew it went so much deeper than that. He wanted Enjolras to be proud of him; he wanted Enjolras to see him for what he was, to care for him as he was. It would seem that Grantaire had moved from an unimportant pawn on Enjolras’ chess board to the queen who refused to move in accordance to the players wishes.

Grantaire was unsure which was worse: Enjolras not looking at him at all or Enjolras looking at him and seeing someone he wasn't, someone he could never be.

He didn’t get to mope about it for long because the seat next to him was suddenly taken. Jehan was sitting next to him with a welcoming smile on his face. Grantaire hadn’t noticed him coming in, but he also hadn’t been paying much attention.

Seeing Jehan reminded him of the conversation he had had with Bossuet when they were walking home the evening his secret had been revealed. They had all been at least a little drunk when Bossuet had confessed to him that Jehan had been crying the whole afternoon. He had apparently only stopped when Musichetta had shown up with the news that Grantaire was alive.

All of the members of the Amis had expressed their happiness at his return to life and they had all seemed to be upset over his passing. It surprised him, although maybe it shouldn’t, but he truly didn’t see himself as a character of much importance in their lives. Jehan was different, though: he saw the world in a way that others simply couldn’t and had more kindness in his heart than ought to be possible for a man living in a world as dark as their own. He was a far better person than Grantaire deserved to count amongst his friends. It hurt his heart to think that he had dismayed Jehan in such a way.

Grantaire felt the need to apologize but he knew Jehan wouldn’t accept such a thing.

“Grantaire,” Jehan said. “What brings you here this morning?”

“I am meeting Joly and Bossuet for breakfast,” Grantaire replied stiffly. Their breakfast meetings were a regular outing that had been going on for a while before the truth of his existence was revealed. Grantaire was unsure how they were going to play out now. Were they going to pretend none of this happened? Was their friendship to end here due to some inability to move past this?

Everyone had been so nice to him since the reveal, but it would be foolish to think that nothing had changed. That night the Amis had asked him so many questions that he couldn’t remember them all now. They had been nice about it though, friendly even when their ‘friend’ had turned out to not be human. Today would be Grantaire’s first time meeting with any of them since, and he found himself unsure of how he’d act around them now. 

“That is wonderful news.” Jehan seemed unbothered by the turmoil in Grantaire’s mind; he just smiled. “It is quite the blessing to happen across one friend but three is even better. Will they be here soon?”

“They should be,” Grantaire replied but he was now unsure. Were they even going to show up? It hadn’t occurred to Grantaire till then, but Joly and Bossuet were running a bit late. Yes, they had both given him friendly conversation when walking back home but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. They were all drunk and neither of them had had the chance to absorb the truth yet. He wouldn’t blame them if they had changed how they felt about him later.

“I spoke with Feuilly yesterday,” Jehan said. Grantaire was glad that Jehan seemed content to lead the conversation because Grantaire was quite sure he would end up putting his foot in his mouth, somehow. “He is still disappointed you cannot get him in touch with Poland.”

“Well, I suppose I know of a way that I might be able to contact him,” Grantaire laughed thinking of Francis who was in contact with nearly every Nation to some degree, “but I don’t really think he would write me back. I am just a revolution, not even a proper Nation.”

“Save your excuses for Feuilly.” Jehan laughed.

“I am going to need to start thinking of excuses,” Grantaire confessed. “I do not believe that Enjolras will let me off the hook for long.”

In truth, Grantaire had no idea what to do about Enjolras. Grantaire was sure by their next meeting Enjolras would have some kind of plan to use him to bring the republic to fruition. And Grantaire… he still wasn’t ready to give in. He didn’t want to lead more people to their deaths.

Jehan gave Grantaire’s hand a quick squeeze, a tiny burst of comfort before he went back to pretending not to see Grantaire’s inner turmoil.

He was thankful when Jehan didn’t assure him that he wouldn’t be forced to reveal himself. He knew as well as Grantaire did that Enjolras would do whatever he thought could bring about his republic. Enjolras was noble and cared so much about the people, but he was also capable of a causal sort of cruelty. There were times when he spoke where he was truly unaware of the horrible effects his words had on others. Grantaire didn’t doubt, not ever for a second, that Enjolras hadn’t meant to refer to him like an object. He still had though.

But then there were times when Enjolras knew exactly what he was saying. He was like a poet with his speeches, he understood people so well. He knew what to say to rally a people to his cause and he knew what to say to tear someone down. Grantaire had been a target of this enough times to know how callous words could hurt. Grantaire wasn’t one to speak, though, he was hardly a victim here; he was just as good at hurting Enjolras as Enjolras was at hurting him.

“They have started planning something,” Jehan admitted quietly.

“What type of plan?” Grantaire asked dread slowly filling him.

“I am not entirely sure,” Jehan said. “I only know what Courfeyrac told me.”

Something in Jehan’s tone alarmed Grantaire, as though he didn’t quite agree with what he had heard himself.

“What are they doing?” Grantaire asked. He didn’t need to specify who he was talking about, whenever something happened with the Amis it was because Enjolras, Combeferre, or Courfeyrac had planned it.

“They are out buying guns,” Jehan whispered. “Or a gun. I am not sure as to the amount, but I think it is more than one.”

“What?” Grantaire jumped out of his chair in surprise. Jehan grabbed his arm and pulled him back down and shushed him. Upon realizing they were indeed still in a public place began whispering back. “Why are they doing that?”

“We were always going to need to get guns at some point. They are unfortunately necessary for a revolution,” Jehan pointed out. “As to why now though… I think your brush with death scared everyone into action.”

This was very bad news, because the absolute last thing Grantaire wanted was for these students to start walking towards their deaths any faster than they already were.

“Last time they tried their hand at illegal business they almost got themselves killed,” Grantaire said. “And they succeeded in getting me killed.”

Jehan gave him a disapproving look and unfortunately, he was right. It was an unfair statement, no one was at fault for Grantaire’s death but Grantaire himself. Well, Grantaire and the guy that shot him. He should have been quicker. He should have found a way to stop them from following that man. He should have convinced them not to write to Francis in the first place.

“They are being careful,” Jehan said it like it should be a comfort, but it did nothing to calm Grantaire.

“You said before that you could feel us— your people, right?” Jehan asked. It was an odd change in topic, but Grantaire nodded along anyways. “Then you know they are alright, don’t you?”

Grantaire had never really used his senses like that before. He usually tried to keep his thoughts to himself, feeling others inside your head was overwhelming and uncomfortable, at best. That was unfortunately just what being a Nation entailed; Grantaire supposed he might try to use it wisely.

“They are fine,” Grantaire finally said, “or at least none of them have died. I would have felt that but…”

“But you still worry,” Jehan said. “It is sweet the way you worry about us, but you forget we worry about you the same way.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Grantaire said, “Nations are sturdy. Surely I have already proven that?”

“Oh Grantaire,” Jehan said his name with such sadness that Grantaire felt guilty again, but this time he was unsure what he had even done wrong. “You really don’t think enough of yourself.”

Grantaire never got to find out what Jehan meant by that, because Joly and Bossuet finally showed up. They were both all smiles when they got to the table, pleased to see that Jehan would be joining them for breakfast.

“I hope we aren’t interrupting anything important,” Joly said, sitting down.

“You couldn’t possibly be interrupting,” Jehan said, waving off Joly’s concerns. “We were waiting for you after all.”

“You both looked so serious when we came in,” Bossuet said. “What were you two discussing?”

Grantaire really didn’t want to confess that they had been discussing guns and the possibility of their friends being mugged and shot by illegal arms dealers. Jehan saved him again by speaking up first.

“The summer flowers are finally blooming,” Jehan said cheerfully.

Surprisingly, Joly seemed to believe it; he scrunched up his nose and scowled at the thought.

“I always get sick during the spring. And the summer. And the winter now that I think about it...” Joly moaned in despair. “Perhaps it’s the flowers.”

“The flowers are not making you ill Joly!” Jehan seemed offended on behalf of every flower Joly had just insulted. “If anything, the flowers should be making you better. Their beauty gives you something to look forward to, some reason to keep going.”

“I should hope that Musichetta and I give Joly enough reason to keep living without the flowers,” Bossuet said, throwing his arm around Joly’s shoulders.

It amazed Grantaire that Jehan could change the topic like that, turn a serious conversation into a lighthearted joke. Grantaire wished he could see things the way Jehan did, full of beauty and color. It seemed that Grantaire’s hope had died within him a long time ago. Yet... Some days he looked to the sky and actually felt the urge to paint, to create something, to find a way to bottle beauty to display later. It was the one quality of his that reminded him of Jehan.

“I think you might be my eyes,” Grantaire said. It was a weird statement, yet Jehan smiled at Grantaire like he had been given some grand complement. It was as if Jehan actually understood what Grantaire was trying to say, a remarkable feat considering not even Grantaire truly knew what it was he was trying to express.

“What do you mean by that?” Joly asked curiously.

“Each part of a Nation’s body represents a different piece of land,” Grantaire explained, “but I don’t represent land the way other Nations do. I represent people so…”

It was a strange concept, Grantaire barely understood it himself. He wasn’t sure how the others would react to it, if they would understand. None of them even stopped for a moment, though. They accepted this knowledge and moved on like it was nothing strange.

“I’d be willing to wager that I am something unfortunate,” Bossuet said, “like his liver.”

“With the way he drinks?” Joly joked. “His liver is in an unfortunate state indeed.”

It was amazing that they could find a joke in this, that they could find ways to turn the reality of his existence into a friendly jab. Perhaps the biggest change to come from all this was the types of jokes they told, not that they would stop altogether.

It was remarkable how conversations with his friends could lighten his mood.

* * *

Francis returned a few days later with a couple of bottles of Monacan wine and stories to tell.

Ironically enough, Grantaire also now had stories to tell, but his weren’t drunken shenanigans and card games like Francis’. Grantaire stories involved dying, having his existence revealed and getting into another argument with Enjolras. It was a shame that Francis hadn’t been here the whole of last week when he actually would have had a use for advice from a fellow Nation.

“Have you decided what you are going to do about it?” Francis asked.

“Yes,” Grantaire said because he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since he had come back to life. “I am going to die.”

Grantaire refused to bring more people into a hopeless cause. He refused to turn more innocent humans into his citizens when he knew doing so was a death sentence. He wouldn’t be the figurehead the revolutionaries gathered behind. Perhaps that made him a bad Nation, but he already knew he was, so it hardly came as a surprise.

Francis’ lips pressed into a thin line; Grantaire had learned that Francis didn’t like it when he talked about his upcoming death. He was terrible at keeping his mouth shut, though, and right now, Grantaire couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad about it. He was still distracted by the guns Enjolras had apparently now purchased. Knowing they planned to take on the government was one thing, seeing it come closer to fruition was another. Those naive schoolboys were going to be slaughtered.

“You never know,” Francis said, “you might win.”

“You don’t want me to win.” Grantaire laughed.

“I want what is best for my people,” Francis countered. “I am starting to think that might not be me anymore.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t me,” Grantaire said. “I am far more of a disaster than you. I am not the type that people rally behind. No one would take up arms in my name.”

Not that Grantaire would ever want anyone to fight for him. Grantaire knew from experience what it felt like when one of your people died, and he was pretty sure it was the worst thing anyone could ever feel. It was like losing a limb, a part of yourself suddenly gone, lost forever.

He didn’t know how Francis, or the other bigger nations survived. Francis must have been losing at least one of his every minute. He supposed that Francis had new citizens being born to counteract the pain; Grantaire only rarely got new revolutions becoming a part of him.

“But people are taking up arms in your name!” Francis exclaimed like he had caught some great contradiction.

“They are not fighting for me,” Grantaire argued, “they are fighting for their ideals.”

Francis let out a little huff. “In case you have forgotten, you  _ are _ their ideals.”

“Don’t you understand? I am not like you,” Grantaire explained. “I am not beautiful and charming or any of the other things a Nation should be. My presence doesn’t make my people feel safe.”

That was what it came down to in the end, revolutions were not beautiful no matter what Enjolras believed. They were dark and angry and violent. He was a monstrous thing that would only bring death.

Francis got out of his chair then in a quick sudden movement. Grantaire was about to ask what he was doing when Francis began to strip off his clothes, first his waistcoat then his shirt. Grantaire could see it now, what he couldn’t see before. His waistcoat was filled with padding on the inside, all made to make him look thicker.

Looking at the man’s bare chest Grantaire could see the horror of it. He wanted to be sick, but there was some horrible fascination that kept him from looking away. Grantaire could clearly see each of his ribs under his skin. He looked pale and frail.

“This is what a Nation looks like when their people are starving,” Francis explained. “It doesn’t matter how much I eat, I will always be hungry as long as my people are.”

Grantaire understood at that moment. He remembered the hunger pains from his early days well, when there just wasn’t enough to eat; during those days almost everyone in France was a revolutionary. Things had gotten better, though, slowly there came to be more bread and Grantaire grew up. Now most of his people weren’t starving, the Amis were mostly students who could afford to eat. This particular issue was one he hadn’t faced in a while.

Francis put his shirt back on then took his waistcoat from when he had dropped it on the floor. With it back on he almost looked normal again, but now Grantaire knew what to look for. He could see the way his body moved with a carefulness that was not elegance but fragility. He could see the makeup that lined Francis’ face was thick and probably covered up his natural pale, sickly coloring. Up until now, Grantaire had just thought Francis had strong cheekbones, now he knew the truth, he lacked fat to round out his face.

For the first time he wondered if this is what Enjolras saw. When he left his apartment every morning and saw the beggars in the streets, did he think of this? Was this the disease Enjolras wanted to cure?

“They don’t listen to me,” Francis said. “I tell them the country is dying and they ignore me. It makes me wonder why they keep inviting me to their meetings.”

“I am sorry,” Grantaire said. It was a pointless thing to say because there was nothing either of them could do about it. Despite what people thought, Nations had remarkably little power. They were not rulers, that was not their purpose on this earth.

“Do you—“ Grantaire didn’t know how to phrase this question, it seemed so bizarre in his mind, but after what Francis had just confessed, he couldn’t help but wonder. “Do you want me to win?”

Francis sighed and took a walk over to Grantaire’s window looking down at the street below him. It wasn’t much of a view, just an empty ugly street, this apartment was not very nice, but it was all he could afford.

“I don’t think I want to die,” Francis admitted, “but if it made things better for my people… Well, I’d be willing to do what I must.”

“That’s very noble of you, but it hardly matters. The monarchy far outnumbers us. Surely you know that?” Grantaire pointed out. “The last of the straggling republicans who have survived this long will soon die out and myself along with them.”

“You're giving up without a fight.”

“I have fought plenty over the years, I am simply being realistic about the outcome of the coming rebellion,” Grantaire growled back, a prick of anger tensing his body like a bow. How dare he claim Grantaire hadn't endeavored to win? Grantaire had fought and lost, his defeatism had been learned the hard way.

“Is that why you spend so much time with humans? Because you believe that you will die soon yourself?”

“Is that why you went to Monaco to visit your sister?” Grantaire snapped back. “Because you think you might die soon?”

It was a cruel low blow that Grantaire regretted the moment he said it. He knew Francis didn’t approve of his continued friendship with humans despite his warnings, but he didn’t appreciate being lectured to. Still, it was not an excuse for such evil words; Grantaire wished he knew how to control his mouth.

“Let’s open up another bottle,” Grantaire said; it was the closet to an apology he felt comfortable giving. This was the way they handled every argument they had now, they got drunk till whatever the disagreement was on didn’t matter anymore. He wished he could use the same methods on Enjolras.

It was funny, in a way, Francis looked so ridiculous standing there in his dingy apartment, wearing fancy clothes and make up provided by the king. He was beautiful and suave, charming everyone, his people and his enemies alike. He made an excellent drinking partner, the only person Grantaire had ever met who could understand even a bit of what he was living through and yet… He and Grantaire were going to have to kill each other one day.

Only one of them could represent France, the other must perish. That was the way of the world.

Making a drinking buddy out of the man who would one day kill you or be killed by you was probably a bad idea. In that way, it had a lot in common with every other decision Grantaire had ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes:**  
>  Times were hard in 1832 Paris. They had food shortages, crop failures and an outbreak of cholera, so yes, people were starving.  
> While most flowers bloom during the spring, some do bloom in the summer! Like Echinacea, some types of Clematis and too many more to list here. I think someone like Jehan would know this.
> 
> **Author’s notes:**  
>  You notice Grantaire did the same thing as Enjolras in chapter 5? He got loud when discussing illegal things in public, clearly they were made for each other.  
> Yes, I have assigned every Amis a body part, the only one I confirmed so far is Enjolras, the rest is Grantaire guessing. Sometimes Grantaire is right and sometimes he is wrong. I will tell you about them as they come up, but feel free to guess in the comments! Haha!
> 
> [Here](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/) is my blog! And [here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog! Feel free to talk to me about this fic, my others or anything else!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I was going to update every 2-ish weeks, but Les Mis is on Netflix now! I needed to celebrate somehow!
> 
> Also I have made some great progress on chapter 20, but I have also been thinking about making some changes to this story. Things are turning out a lot longer than originally planned, and chapter 20 is a natural break in the story. Because of this I am considering splitting the story into 2 fics. The problem with this is that if I leave this story at chapter 20, it would be a pretty sad ending. I am serious about the happy ending tag, but the happy ending might end up being in the sequel fic rather than this one. But I am also undecided on this. If anyone has an opinion about it, feel free to share it!
> 
> **Warnings:**  
>  Drinking, but not excessively  
> Discussion of death  
> Dehumanization
> 
> Special thanks to my amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/), [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet), and [les Amis DCD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD)

Grantaire came to the next meeting early, mostly for lack of anything else to do tonight and partly because he was hoping to be drunk by the time the meeting began. He wasn’t the first to arrive though, that honor was Combeferre’s. Grantaire was just cynical enough to think that Combeferre might have been waiting for him.

Combeferre had been very polite in his curiosity. During their last meeting Combeferre had given everyone an equal chance to speak, had never spoken over anyone else to ask his questions. Unsurprising —Combeferre was such a polite man— but when it was all over, Grantaire had been expecting the man to chase him out of the Musain or show up at his apartment. Perhaps he would have, had he known where Grantaire lived.

As it was, Grantaire could see that Combeferre was practically vibrating with all of his unasked questions. Grantaire was surprised that Combeferre waited for him to get a drink and sit down rather than jumping him the moment he walked into the Musain. Instead Combeferre walked calmly over to Grantaire in measured steps though Grantaire’s trained eyes noticed the slight spring that just barely hid his childlike excitement.

“Good evening, Grantaire,” Combeferre said, then gestured to the chair across from Grantaire. “Do you mind if I join you? Or are you waiting on someone?”

Grantaire usually sat with Bossuet and Joly, who had not yet arrived, and Combeferre could usually be found near Courfeyrac or Enjolras, so this seating arrangement was a little odd. But Grantaire expected many things this evening to be odd. Grantaire could say no, Combeferre was kind enough to give him an out, and he truthfully didn’t feel like answering questions again tonight. He knew to do such a thing would be rude, however, and he didn’t wish to be rude to Combeferre.

Besides, it is his own fault for showing up to the meeting early.

Grantaire rather liked Combeferre even if they didn’t speak often; as a result, Combeferre was probably the member of the Amis that Grantaire knew the least about. He wasn’t the type to drink and play games, like most of the others, and he was more soft-spoken than Enjolras. Grantaire would have liked to claim that the man was his friend, but he wasn’t sure that was actually true. Either way, Combeferre was the type of person that thrived on knowledge, he devoted much of his life to the pursuits of understanding the world around him; it would be cruel to hide what little he knew from the man.

“Please join me.” Grantaire tried to smile at the man as he made himself comfortable in the chair.

“If you are not busy,” Combeferre said rather pointlessly, for it was obvious to anyone looking at him that he was doing nothing but preparing to get drunk. “I was hoping you might be able to answer a few more questions for me?”

No exchange of pleasantries, surprising but not unappreciated. He respected Combeferre’s desire to cut right to the chase, and Grantaire was all for getting this conversation over with as soon as possible, although some part of his mind told him this conversation would never truly end, that the answers he gave Combeferre now would spark new questions for later.

“I make no guarantees,” Grantaire warned, “but I will try to answer your questions.”

Combeferre pulled out some books and papers from his satchel and began laying them out on the table. Clearly, he had come prepared. It was hard to tell in the low light of the room, but Grantaire could swear the Combeferre almost looked giddy.

“I spoke to Jehan earlier this week, he said that you thought he might be your eyes,” Combeferre said. “Can you explain that?”

Grantaire bit his lip in thought. He wasn’t sure how to explain that. It was something that had been normal to him all his life. He didn’t have any idea what it was like to be ‘alone’— to not feel other beings within you. This was ordinary to him. But he had promised he would try to explain, so try he would.

Grantaire did his best to launch into an explanation and Combeferre began to diligently take notes. He only interrupted once to ask for clarification.

Combeferre was the opposite of Grantaire in many ways. He believed in everything, or at least in the possibility of anything. Grantaire had once overheard the man discuss the likelihood of ghosts existing with Feuilly. Most would have assumed that it was the well-educated Combeferre who would be the skeptic in such a debate, but it had been the opposite. Combeferre was rather adamant about the possibility of ghosts existing. Where Combeferre believed in everything, Grantaire believed in nothing.

Grantaire should therefore have anticipated that Combeferre would believe everything he said, but he hadn’t. He expected to be met with some degree of doubt but never once did Combeferre show even an ounce of disbelief. He accepted everything Grantaire said as fact.

After a half hour of trying, and probably failing, to explain what being a Nation  _ feels _ like, Enjolras and Courfeyrac arrived. Courfeyrac seemed glad to see them both, but Enjolras ignored them, walking past as though he didn’t even see them. The complete dismissal hurt but it was hardly abnormal.

Courfeyrac must have seen his frown because he said: “Don’t worry about him, he is just in a bad mood.” Courfeyrac gave Grantaire a pat on his shoulder and a wink, then went to join Enjolras at the other side of the room.

“Courfeyrac is right,” Combeferre said. “Enjolras just has a lot on his mind at the moment. Don’t let it bother you.”

“It is hardly anything new,” Grantaire huffed. “He has never liked me.”

“No that’s not it at all,” Combeferre insisted. “I just think perhaps you hurt him more than you realize. He would never admit such a thing of course but…”

“I don’t follow,” Grantaire said.

“Enjolras spends so much of his life in dedication to the revolution…” Combeferre said. “I think you rejecting him hurt him a lot.”

It was a silly thing to say, Grantaire  _ rejected _ Enjolras? He had never done any such thing; he didn’t think himself capable of it. But Combeferre looked so serious, like he really believed what he was saying.

“I really do not understand what we are talking about,” Grantaire confessed.

“Enjolras didn’t expect there to be another personification; none of us did,” Combeferre said, “but even so you aren’t quite what he expected.”

Oh, now it made sense, why Enjolras couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, the dismissal. It hurt to realize, but Grantaire could see it now. He was very far from what Enjolras would have wanted in a personification of his ideals.

“He is disappointed.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Combeferre said.

Of course, Combeferre wouldn’t phrase it like that, he was too nice to say something so harsh or so blunt. That didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Enjolras would probably rather have Francis fighting by his side, he was suave and brave and a far better Nation than Grantaire.

“He is rather excited actually. We all are,” Combeferre said. “Whether you realize it or not, your presence here makes us feel like we are on the right track.”

He hated this. He hated that he was giving them some kind of false hope. He hated Combeferre looking at him like a savior.

“I can’t-“ Grantaire cut himself off. He didn't know how to say this but he knew it needed to be said. “I can’t help you. I can’t fight this battle for you.”

“I know that. So do the others, to some degree at least,” Combeferre said. “Mostly it is Enjolras who doesn’t quite understand that.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” Grantaire asked incredulously. Combeferre just shrugged.

“I have done a lot of research on Nations,” Combeferre said. “From what I have read you are the sentinels; you are here to watch over and guide us. Not do our work for us. If we want this republic to come into existence, we will need to build it for ourselves. I understand that.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire said. He was grateful that at least one person didn’t expect grand things from him, it was one fewer person to let down. Combeferre seemed confused by his response, but he didn’t get the chance to ask further questions because Joly and Bossuet came inside, laughing about something or another.

Combeferre nodded a goodbye to Grantaire as he vacated his seat for Joly and Bossuet to take. Courfeyrac and Enjolras entered moments later and soon Combeferre was caught up in another conversation.

Grantaire was secretly glad at being interrupted, the conversation was Combeferre had left Grantaire confused and uncomfortable.

“What were you and Combeferre talking about?” Bossuet asked.

“I honestly have no idea,” Grantaire answered.

When Enjolras began talking, the room got quiet; unsurprising because he usually commanded a room, but never once during his speech did he glance in Grantaire’s direction. Grantaire took a long drink from his bottle and told himself it didn’t bother him.

“We need to think carefully about when we should act,” Enjolras said. “Our cause depends on the people rising with us. We need to pick a time when they are at their angriest – “

Grantaire couldn’t help the little laugh that bubbled out of him. It was the type of thing that would normally be ignored, but he should have known that wouldn’t be the case tonight. Everyone was paying attention to him now.

“Do you have something to add, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked. His voice was calm but there was an edge to it. It was the first time Enjolras had looked his way tonight, the first time they had spoken since their argument last week. It filled Grantaire with an emotion he couldn’t quite describe.

“Only that your plan won’t work,” Grantaire said dismissively. He fully expected everyone to dismiss his cynical comments like they always did, but luck wasn’t on his side.

“Can you clarify what you are referring to?” Enjolras asked. His voice was icy, as if it was killing him to acknowledge Grantaire.

“It doesn't matter,” Grantaire said, turning back to his drink.

“It matters,” Enjolras said firmly. “If we are doing something wrong that we need to know-“

“You always said I was too cynical for you,” Grantaire said. “I don’t see why you would care about my opinion now.”

“Don’t Nations exist to advise the government?” Enjolras looked like it was taking everything in him to keep his calm. Normally, Grantaire found his anger beautiful, but this was different. “Your advice has not been helpful so far but- “

Enjolras kept talking but Grantaire couldn’t listen. All he heard was white noise through the despair filling him up. Of course, the only reason Enjolras was paying any attention to him was because he was The Revolution. Enjolras, who normally couldn’t care less for Grantaire’s existence, cared now because he was a Nation. Only now was his advice worthwhile; only now did his opinion matter.

The worst part was that Enjolras was right. Nations did exist to advise the government, they told the leaders what the people were thinking, what the people wanted. Enjolras had every reason to think his only worth was as an adviser.

It still hurt though. It still felt dehumanizing; rather ironic since he wasn’t even human.

“You aren’t a government yet,” Grantaire said stubbornly. He grabbed his bottle and stalked out of the room. Joly and Bossuet made a move to follow him, but he waved them both off. There was no reason for them to not finish the meeting.

Enjolras might have been right about him, but he didn’t have it in him to sit there and be referred to like an object tonight. Unfortunately, he also didn’t have it in him to leave. His people were all gathered here; he belonged here. He couldn’t just  _ leave _ . The front half of the Musain was filled with their more normal clientele, the people who weren’t revolutionaries, merrymakers, drunkards, new customers and regular patrons alike. Grantaire settled amongst the comfortable noise, bought another bottle and got comfortable with some men playing dominos.

* * *

It wasn’t till after the meeting had ended and the Amis dispersed that Grantaire was able to gather the strength to leave. It was also then that he realized that he had left his hat in the backroom.

He considered leaving it there, but he couldn’t really afford a new hat. Most of the Amis were gone now anyways, he could feel that much. Besides, his argument with Enjolras wasn’t that bad, at least by their standards, neither of them had even shouted. There was really no good reason to abandon his hat there.

Gathering his courage, Grantaire left his empty bottle and dominos behind to return to the Musain’s back room where the Amis met. The only people he saw on his way back were Courfeyrac and Jehan who seemed surprised to see him again, but smiled at him as he passed by. It was comforting to know they were not upset by the way he had stormed out of the room.

Inside, Combeferre and Enjolras were still sitting down shuffling some papers around. They looked up at Grantaire when he entered.

“I uh… forgot my hat,” Grantaire said to explain his return. He felt awkward, but he had come this far, he was at least going to get his hat.

“I noticed,” Combeferre said picking up his hat off the table next to him and walking towards Grantaire. “I was planning to bring it back to you tomorrow, but it would seem you saved me the time.”

Grantaire secretly suspected Combeferre just wanted an excuse to seek him out so he could ask more questions, but it was a kind thought either way.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said, taking the hat and turning to leave. But Combeferre stopped him before he could by grabbing his arm.

“If you don’t mind, I would like to ask you one more question?” Combeferre asked. Grantaire really wanted to go home but he figured one more question wouldn’t hurt. He ignored Enjolras who was pretending not to be watching them both from the other side of the room.

“Sure,” Grantaire agreed.

“I don’t know if this is considered rude to ask, if it is, please don’t think you need to answer, but I confess that I am quite curious.” Combeferre said. Grantaire doubted any question he asked could be rude. “What part of your body does Enjolras represent?”

The question asked so much more than Combeferre realized, or perhaps Combeferre knew exactly what he was asking. Either way Grantaire saw no reason to lie either. “He is my heart.”

Grantaire didn’t know what Combeferre thought of that statement, but from the look on his face he was probably making some very accurate assumptions. Grantaire didn’t like wearing his heart on his sleeve, but Enjolras was his heart so he hardly had any choice in the matter; his heart would walk his sleeve, the room and the whole of Paris if he saw fit.

“I think you should talk to him,” Combeferre said as he turned to leave.

Grantaire scoffed. It would just end in another argument, and Grantaire didn’t think his heart was ready for that again tonight.

“He was very upset when you died,” Combeferre said seriously.

That wasn’t surprising, Enjolras was far from a violent man, he would always be upset about people’s death. Grantaire said as much to Combeferre, but Combeferre just shook his head as if  _ Grantaire _ was missing the point.

“He was upset because  _ you _ died,” Combeferre explained, “and I think you need to talk to him.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he didn’t get to ask for more clarification. Combeferre had brushed past him and left Grantaire and Enjolras alone in the room.

Grantaire wanted to turn around and walk out but he made the mistake to gaze upon Enjolras and found himself caught by the look in his eyes. It was clear he wanted to say something, and Combeferre was probably right about them needing to talk, but Grantaire didn’t think himself capable of starting this conversation. Fortunately, he was saved from having to break the ice by Enjolras speaking up.

“Have I offended you in some way?” Enjolras asked. There was some faint hurt lacing his words and Grantaire immediately felt guilty for making Enjolras think this was his fault.

“You haven’t done anything,” Grantaire answered honestly. If there was one thing Grantaire knew for sure, it was that everything that had happened was his fault in one way or another.

“Then why do you-“ Enjolras cut himself off as he tried to rephrase his words. It was so bizarre to see Enjolras unsure of his words, it only made Grantaire feel worse. Enjolras was naturally verbose; it felt wrong seeing him like this.

Enjolras looked away from him then, turning himself back towards the papers littering his table, as if he couldn’t bring himself to so much as look at Grantaire anymore. He took a deep breath and said, “I know you hate me-“

Grantaire’s whole world stopped at that moment. Nothing made sense and he couldn’t help but interrupt. “Hate you? How could I ever hate you?”

Enjolras’ head snapped back towards him and he leapt out of his seat. “It is rather obvious that you would rather have someone else as your leader.” Enjolras’ flared in irritation as he marched towards Grantaire. “Perhaps when we make this republic and people are able to vote, you will get a leader you deserve, but until then I am trying my best.”

“You’re the best leader any Nation could ever hope for,” Grantaire said truthfully. It was such an insane thing to say; Enjolras, not a good leader! How could he even think such a thing? “You are undoubtedly the best leader I have ever had.”

Enjolras looked surprised for a moment before his eyes turned downcast. “Then it is just me as a person you hate?”

“I could never hate you. Enjolras I-“ Grantaire cut himself off before he said something regrettable. “I care for you greatly.”

“Then I don’t understand. You come to these meetings just to disagree with me.” When Enjolras looked back up at Grantaire his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I didn’t understand back when I thought you were human. Then I found out the truth and I thought you were here to help but you just couldn’t stand me-“

“Couldn’t stand you-“ Grantaire said in disbelief, “you’re amazing- it is you who can’t stand me.”

“What I can’t stand is you coming here just to make fun of my work and get drunk,” Enjolras said in indignation.

“I just don’t want you all to get yourselves killed!” Grantaire yelled, his voice rose of his own accord, his despair overriding his good sense and calm. “I try to tell you that something won’t work, but you never listen.”

“We were listening tonight!” Enjolras said stepping right into Grantaire’s space.

He could feel Enjolras’ hot breath on his skin. It was only then that he realized how close they had gotten during their argument. Grantaire took a step back unable to handle the closeness of their bodies.

“Yes,” Grantaire admitted with a frown, “you were listening tonight.”

“I don’t understand you. You were always complaining that we never listened to you and now you have a problem with me listening to your opinion,” Enjolras said, “What do you want?”

It hurt that he even had to explain this, but it was obvious Enjolras just didn’t understand. Perhaps Francis was right, humans are simply unable to understand them. Maybe pursuing relationships with them was ultimately pointless.

“You are not listening to  _ my _ opinion.” Grantaire amended. “You are listening to The Revolution’s opinion.”

“Of course, I would want to listen to the opinion of our Nation,” Enjolras interjected, clearly confused by the distinction Grantaire had made, “we are planning a revolution.”

“Well forgive me for not wanting to be regarded as a Nation,” Grantaire, said in an angry huff. 

“You are a Nation!” Enjolras snapped.

“I am also a person, Enjolras!”

Grantaire heard Enjolras take a sudden sharp breath, his eyes went wide and he shuffled his feet backwards, realisation finally dawning on him. 

Enjolras looked at him then, really, truly looked at him, and it was probably the first time Enjolras actually saw him as he was. Not as the drunk that sat in the back table, nor the Nation coming to bring freedom to the land. In that moment, Grantaire thought that Enjolras saw him as he actually was, a simple man.

“That's why you never told anyone… That’s why you got upset when I called you Revolution,” Enjolras stammered as he came to a realization. “You don’t want people to think of you as less than human.”

“You just said it yourself, I am not human.” Grantaire shrugged off; he always tried to backpedal away from emotional conversations.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said so earnestly, it made Grantaire shuffle uncomfortably. “I didn’t intend to imply that you weren’t a person.”

“It's fine,” Grantaire waved him off.

“It’s not,” Enjolras said seriously. “I never thought much about how Nations must feel… all the books and stories make them seem so ethereal. I didn’t consider your personal feelings on matters.”

Enjolras grabbed his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “That was wrong of me,” Grantaire felt his breath catch in his throat; he was frozen in place unable to move under Enjolras’ piercing gaze. “I can understand why you would desire to stay hidden.”

It would probably have been smart for Grantaire to keep his mouth shut right now, but Enjolras’ hand was still in his, and all his thoughts were fogged over.

“That’s not why I don’t want to go into public with you,” Grantaire admitted.

Enjolras frowned at this and let go of his hand. Grantaire immediately missed the warmth and wished he knew how to keep his mouth shut. Maybe if he had kept quiet, Enjolras would have held his hand for just a moment longer.

“Then why won’t you?” Enjolras asked, aggravated. “Surely you realize that we need all the support we can get if we are going to win.”

“We are not going to win,” Grantaire said desperately, “and you're all going to die.”

“Why do you always say things like that?” Enjolras huffed out in distress. “This is why we fight. You always-“

“I say it because it is true,” Grantaire pleaded in hopes that Enjolras might understand that, might stop all this before it was too late. “The people are scared. They don’t want to die, and they aren’t willing to fight. I can feel them, I  _ know _ .”

Enjolras stopped to consider this for a moment and, for a brief second, Grantaire could feel his heart stop beating. Then, just as quickly, it was over; his heart beat again and Enjolras looked up to him with a newfound determination.

“Then we will need to work harder to gather more people to our cause.”

“This is a death sentence,” Grantaire begged him to understand. “I won’t subject more people to death. I can’t.”

Enjolras smiled at him then, a real true smile and Grantaire thought that this might just be the first time Enjolras had ever smiled in his direction. It took his breath away and made him long to touch him again. It took all his might, but Grantaire kept his hands dutifully at his side.

“I am going to prove you wrong,” Enjolras spoke with so much confidence that for a moment Grantaire thought Enjolras might actually be able to do it. But a moment later that hope was gone, and reality settled back into his bones.

In the end, all Grantaire could say was: “I pray you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can tell I ship C/R/E a lot because I accidentally put a C/R shipping moment into this… I just love them a lot guys. Don’t worry if you don’t like that ship, they will not be happening in this story.
> 
> Enjolras and Grantaire finally have a normal conversation! I am proud of them for actually using their words and talking to each other for once.
> 
> [here](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/) is my blog! And [here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog! Feel free to talk to me about this fic, my others or anything else!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice that a few things are different with this fic, allow me to explain.
> 
> This fic is getting long, and chapter 20 is a good breaking point, so I have decided to split the story in half. Which means, this fic is now completed! I have finished chapter 20! And chapter 1 of the sequel is currently being worked on. Because of this, the tags have changed.
> 
> But that also means a bad thing. I told you all that this story has a happy ending, and it will! But… the happy ending is going to be in the sequel now. Meaning that this story will have a sad ending. I am so sorry about this. I don’t read sad ending fics myself, so I can see how this would upset some of you. But I swear the sequel will be happy!
> 
> Also, I will be changing my author's notes on previous chapters slightly so new readers know what they are getting into.
> 
> If you have any questions about this feel free to ask.
> 
> **Warnings:**  
>  Emotional manipulation  
> Emetophobia (if you don’t know what this is, look it up. The common word is triggering to some)
> 
> My amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/), [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet), and [les Amis DCD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD)

Grantaire was actually in a good mood, for once. Last night’s meeting had marked the first time he and Enjolras had ever had a discussion that actually ended in some sort of mutual understanding. Enjolras would never understand what it was like to be a Nation, and Grantaire would never understand why Enjolras, or any of the Amis for that matter, were so willing to throw their lives away.

But their discussion had ended well. Sure, there were at least two different arguments in the middle, but they had parted on friendly terms. It was a new and wonderful feeling.

What is more, Enjolras had held his hand, even if only for a moment. Grantaire couldn’t help but think that was all he needed to die happy.

It was hard to hear that Enjolras had thought that Grantaire had hated him, but Grantaire was glad that Enjolras had said something so he could set it right. He also now knew that Enjolras didn’t hate _him_. Enjolras hated his drinking and his pessimism, neither of which were likely to change, but he didn’t hate Grantaire himself. This was amazing news that had brightened Grantaire’s day and had made everything seem just a bit softer.

Perhaps now that they understood each other a bit better, they could try at being friends? Perhaps they could put their arguments behind them?

Grantaire was maybe a little bit hopeful.

Francis had come by again to finish sitting for the portrait Grantaire was working on. Grantaire was hoping to finish it soon, because his only income came from selling his art and he was almost out of paintings to sell. The only paintings he had left were ones no one seemed willing to buy; his last two auctions hadn’t gone in his favor.

He was hoping that a portrait of France might spur some patriotic sensibility in someone. Maybe then he might actually be able to make some money to go on living another month. Coincidentally, Grantaire had been right about Gros loving the idea of a portrait of France, it was the first time the man had ever complimented one of Grantaire’s works in progress.

Thus, Grantaire was actually feeling rather confident about his current work. Doubtlessly, the Amis would find it bizarre if they were to hear that he is painting France, but he didn’t plan on telling them about it either. He didn’t really want them to know he was in regular communication with Francis as he doubted they would understand their friendship. Hell, Grantaire barely understood their friendship, but he did understand that they were friends.

“You have been in a good mood all day,” Francis commented.

Grantaire shrugged his shoulders, unable to deny what was so obviously true.

Francis had spent the whole afternoon drinking while Grantaire painted and Grantaire had joined in because he couldn’t say no to the high-quality wine Francis brought with him. He was trying not to drink too much though; he never did his best work when inebriated.

“Well, what has you in such a good mood?” Francis asked.

“It's nothing,” Grantaire said, focusing on trying to keep his brush stroke steady.

“Oh, it is definitely something,” Francis insisted. If there was one thing he had learned from drinking with Francis, it was that the man was a rather obnoxious drunk. It was easier to just go along with him.

“I just recently realized that Enjolras doesn’t hate me,” Grantaire said ducking his face behind his canvas to hide his blush. “That’s all.”

“Well, yes, obviously,” Francis said dejectedly, clearly upset that he hadn’t been given more juicy gossip.

“If you had seen us interact you wouldn’t think it obvious,” Grantaire said. “We fight a lot.”

“But… he’s your leader, isn’t he?” Francis asked, confused.

Grantaire nodded, but then realized Francis couldn’t see him from where his head was hidden behind the canvas. “Yeah that’s him.”

“Well, then it is really not that surprising,” Francis explained. “Humans have no choice but to love us, at least the patriot ones don’t.”

“What do you mean by that?” Grantaire asked in dread.

“I know it happened with Joan.” Francis seemed to be mulling over how to best explain his thoughts. “I know she loved me, but I doubt she loved Francis the person.”

It made sense then with a sudden uncomfortable clarity. Enjolras couldn’t stand him. He frequently spoke out against Grantaire and never looked upon him with kindness the way he did to the others. Yet, despite that he had never forced him from a meeting. Grantaire had always taken that as a sign that Enjolras didn’t completely hate him. After the last meeting, Enjolras had said that he didn’t hate Grantaire… It would appear now that he was wrong.

Grantaire had been manipulating Enjolras all along.

He was unaware Nations even had that kind of power over their people. It made sense, though in a dark and twisted way. Even when Enjolras didn’t know Grantaire was a Nation, he was still so dedicated to his republic that some subconscious part of his mind understood what Grantaire was. It explained why Enjolras could never bring himself to throw Grantaire out of a meeting.

This revelation made Grantaire question every other interaction he had had with the Amis. Did any of them actually like him? They were all so strong in their beliefs, none of them befriended loyalists. People who didn’t believe in their plan were certainly never allowed into their meetings. And yet, they were all so friendly towards him; they had allowed him into their inner circle despite his frequent cynicism towards their cause.

Was it because they, too, had subconsciously recognized him as the personification of their revolution?

Unaware of Grantaire’s internal horror at this revelation, Francis continued drunkenly. “In the same way it is hard for us to differentiate our feelings and the feelings of our people, it is hard for our citizens to differentiate their feelings towards their Nations and us as people.”

Grantaire felt his whole world tilting. He was breathing too fast and couldn't think straight. His panic must have become clear to Francis because Grantaire felt a hand on his shoulder steadying him.

“Are you alright?” Francis asked.

Grantaire knew he should have said something to calm Francis down and reassure him, but all that came out was: “I’m going to be sick.”

Drunk as he might have been, Francis was quick to find a place for Grantaire to vomit into. It was unfortunate that what he had found was the satchel that Grantaire used to carry his paints.

When he was done heaving into the satchel, he got up and tossed the whole thing into one of his kitchen pots; there was no reason to save the bag now it was quite unusable. He would have to clean that later, but that was a problem to be dealt with in the future, when his life made sense again.

“I am sorry you had to see that,” Grantaire said as he made his way to his bed so he might sit down more comfortably. “I don’t usually get so sick when drinking.”

“That is unsurprising. Nations are quite sturdy,” Francis explained. “It takes quite a bit to get us sick. Can I get you something?”

Grantaire immediately responded with a request for another drink. Francis just frowned down at him.

“I think you have had enough for the day.”

Grantaire had apparently been unintentionally manipulating his friends without even realizing it. He absolutely hadn’t had enough for the day, but it was clear that was not the answer Francis wanted to hear.

“Did you really love her?” Grantaire asked, thinking of Enjolras and the depth of his own feelings. “You said it yourself, it is so hard to tell the difference between what your people feel and what you feel… but it was a long time ago now surely your people’s feelings in this regard have calmed by now.”

“I loved her in the only way I knew how,” Francis replied. It wasn’t much of an answer and it didn’t leave Grantaire satisfied in the least.

“He doesn’t actually like me,” Grantaire tested the words out on his lips and found them truthful. “He really does hate me.”

“I didn’t say that,” Francis hurried to correct Grantaire’s interpretation of his words. “I only meant that some of his regard towards you comes from your Nationhood. He can’t hate you; you are his Nation.”

“But he would hate me, if he could,” Grantaire said. “I claim to love him, yet I have stolen his free will.”

The silence between them was deafening. All Grantaire could hear was the pounding of his own blood in his ears. He wasn’t sure how long they sat in silence before Francis finally spoke again.

“My people looked to her in hope, so did I, too. She wasn’t a real human being to me, but an idea. She was a savior, a religion, but not a person,” Francis said breaking the stillness. “I didn’t know how to love her as a person, but I did love her the only way I knew how.”

A quiet stillness filled the room as Francis walked towards him. Grantaire wasn’t sure what he expected, but the warm hug he received wasn’t it. Grantaire could still smell the wine on his breath, a reminder that Francis probably only said all this because he had too much to drink.

“You love him, but you don’t think of him as a person,” Francis whispered into Grantaire’s neck, “I don’t know what he feels towards you, but I would be willing to bet he doesn’t quite think of you as a person either.”

When Francis pulled away his eyes were red. Grantaire wasn’t sure if he was crying because of Joan or because of something Grantaire had said, but he felt guilty about it either way.

“You never actually said why you’re here,” Grantaire said because he didn’t know how to respond to everything else that Francis had just said this afternoon.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” Francis replied.

“No,” Grantaire clarified himself, “you never said why you wanted to meet me, why you wanted to get to know me. You said before you felt guilty for not being there for me in my younger years but—“

“I just wanted you to know that you are not alone,” Francis said. “That you don’t have to be alone.”

Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. He had never felt more alone than this very moment. He didn’t actually have any friends, just people he had manipulated without meaning to. He essentially was alone. The worst part was it didn’t even matter— not really.

The rebellion was still coming. The Amis couldn’t be talked out of it— God knows that Grantaire had tried. They were all going to die. The only thing he could hope for was that the spirit of rebellion would finally die with them, that he would be allowed to rest. Didn’t he deserve it? After all this time, didn’t he deserve death? He wasn’t even old by Nation standards, but he was already so done with this Earth.

He had never been close to people before, not really, not till he began to interact with the Amis. Now he couldn’t imagine life without them. Even knowing that he was using them, he didn’t think he could stay away. They were a part of him. His friends were the blood in his veins and the air in his lungs and he couldn’t imagine living even a moment without them.

“You needn’t have bothered.” He wished Francis hadn’t come. Francis had brought information Grantaire wished he hadn’t heard, but Francis was kind and didn’t deserve his scorn. The only person worthy of his scorn was himself. “I will be dead soon enough.”

“Perhaps,” Francis admitted, “but there is no reason for you to die alone. You can stay with me; I have plenty of room—”

“The personification of the rebellion living under the same roof as the king and queen?” Grantaire laughed at the insane image that entered his mind. “Somehow I don’t think they’d approve.”

“I have guests often enough; they would not think anything of it. I doubt they would even ask who you were.”

Grantaire had an inkling as to what type of ‘guests’ Francis had. Everyone had heard the rumors that Francis was a flirt, it was funny to hear them confirmed. It was a shame he couldn’t tell anyone about this, he could already imagine the laughs Joly and Bossuet would get out of a story like this.

“My rooms are comfortable, and I have access to great doctors. They won’t be able to save you, but they can make you comfortable,” Francis said quietly, like he was afraid of what he was saying, “If the rebellion doesn’t go in your favor then—”

“I am not stupid. I don’t need you to baby me, I know this won’t go in my favor.”

“You don’t need to die alone.”

Grantaire thought of his people, the Amis that had offered him friendship. The people who probably would hate him if he wasn’t a Nation. The people who had no idea how he was manipulating them. The people who were the only family he had even known.

Grantaire knew from experience just how much the deaths of a Nation’s citizens hurt. He couldn’t imagine leading them into battle by choice, the thought of losing just one of them hurt him so much, but they were going to march forward and fight in his name, whether he wanted them to or not. If they were to die, then he would be right beside them.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Grantaire said with a rueful smile. “I won’t be dying alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … I am sorry?
> 
> I really wanted to explore the relationship between nations and their people in this fic. Grantaire has been wondering for a while now which are his emotions and which are his people’s, but he is only just now realizing that this goes both ways. So whatever power Enjolras might have over Grantaire as his “leader” Grantaire kind of has the same power over him too. Their relationship in this fic is not the healthiest, but it gets there.
> 
> Also, we are half way there! Except not really because the sequel is probably going to be like 15 chapters, but whatever.
> 
> And finally, I am in the les mis zine! It has been an awesome experience. I will eventually post the story I wrote for that on AO3.
> 
> [Here](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/) is my blog! And [here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog! Feel free to talk to me about this fic, my others or anything else!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a ton of warnings, so please proceed carefully!
> 
> I was originally going to update last week because chapter 10 felt like a mean cliffhanger, but I am not organized to any degree. I am still working on chapter 1 of the sequel but I haven’t made much progress because I have a few other fics with deadlines I need to work on.
> 
> **Warnings:**  
>  Description of depression  
> Unintentionally emotional manipulation  
> alcoholism/ drinking as a coping mechanism  
> Suicidal behavior, thoughts, and maybe successful actions (temporary character death)
> 
> My amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/), [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet), and [les Amis DCD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD)

Grantaire didn’t go to breakfast with Joly and Bossuet that week.

He sent them a short letter telling them not to expect him and they responded back with well wishes and the desire to see him next week. He didn’t plan to see them next week either. It didn’t matter, they wouldn’t miss him. They didn’t even really like him; they just didn’t realize it.

Grantaire spent the week in a state of vacant melancholy. He drank and slept, only leaving his rooms to get more alcohol. It was a hollow existence that he knew could not be kept up for long. He needed to sell paintings to pay rent and buy more wine. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Was there any purpose in continuing your existence when you didn’t have companionship?

Yes, he could have gone to any one of the Amis for company, but he refused to take advantage of them in such a way. They were not even aware that he was controlling them, using their kindness against them like a weapon. It made him want to vomit every time he thought about it.

He tried not to think about it.

He didn’t go to the next Amis meeting. It was hard; every fiber of his being longed to join his people. He longed to be near them, for it was where he belonged, but he managed to avoid joining them. In order to accomplish this task, he bought a rather absurd amount of wine and drank as much as physically possible. Only when he was too inebriated to move was he able to stop himself from joining the meeting. It was for their sake.

He thought he might have died again that night; it was the kind of thing he would do, drink himself to death in the quiet of his room. He woke up with a headache that certainly felt like death, but then again, he could not recall ever getting that drunk before. Perhaps this was just what a hangover that bad felt like. It didn't matter if he did die; if he did, then he’d come back. He would always come back.

Bossuet came by to visit him one afternoon. Grantaire pretended that he wasn’t home and Bossuet eventually left disappointed. He got a few worried letters inquiring as to his well being. He ignored them. Francis came by once too. Grantaire didn’t bother trying to pretend to be out with him. It wouldn’t work, not since they could feel each other’s presence. Grantaire ignored him anyways. He saw no purpose in any conversation, but he did appreciate the wine Francis left at his doorstep.

Grantaire should have known that it wouldn’t be long before Enjolras found his way to him.

As far as Grantaire knew, Enjolras didn’t even know where he lived, so he must have gotten this information from someone else. It didn’t matter who though, not when Enjolras was banging on his door.

The man clearly didn’t care about making a scene in Grantaire’s apartment hallway. He was loud and angry, all beautiful fury that would normally make Grantaire weak in the legs. As it was, all Grantaire felt was dread. Grantaire hoped this wouldn’t be the thing that got him evicted. Grantaire could end this scene by getting up and answering the door, but he was determined to pretend to be out.

At least, until Enjolras said something that broke Grantaire's heart.

“Grantaire—” Enjolras cut himself off. When he started speaking again it was much quieter. “Please open the door...”

Enjolras’ voice sounded listless and desperate and Grantaire hated himself for making Enjolras feel that way. All he wanted was to take away Enjolras’ pain, it was a desire that overran all other thoughts. Grantaire didn’t realize what he was doing till he had already gotten out of bed and walked to the door. His hand laid on the doorknob, his mind waiting for his body to turn it. He knew he should have ignored Enjolras, it was for his own good but… he never could deny Enjolras anything.

“I know you are in there, please—” Enjolras’ plea was cut off by Grantaire opening the door. His fist stopped in mid-air, halfway to pounding on the door again. “Oh, you are actually here.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrow questioningly. In spite of his earlier claim, Enjolras looked a bit surprised to see Grantaire, but mostly he just looked sad. Enjolras only allowed himself to look downcast for a moment, though. He was quick to school his features into something serious and push past Grantaire into his apartment.

As soon as he walked inside, Enjolras scrunched up his nose in disgust. Grantaire only then looked at the state of his rooms; they were an ugly mess of dirty clothes, wine bottles and spilt paints. If he had planned to have company, he would have cleaned up but, as it stood, he had spent the whole of the last week or so in a drunken stupor. God, he didn’t even know what day of the week it was…

“Is this what you have been doing then?” Enjolras asked, kicking an empty bottle with his foot. “Drinking?”

“What else would I be doing?” Grantaire asked.

“Maybe helping us plan?” Enjolras chided. “What were you thinking about, drinking so much?”

Grantaire wasn’t excited to hear Enjolras’ disappointment, but he knew he deserved it. Enjolras deserved a better Nation than him.

“I was thinking that being a Nation is hell,” Grantaire said. He was still drunk, but he was more sober than he had been for most of this last week. Even so, he blamed his loose tongue on the wine.

Enjolras turned to him with a frown. “What are you talking about?”

What was he referring to? Grantaire didn’t even know anymore, there was so much. The pain he felt every time one of his people was hurt, the knowledge that his mind was not truly his own, the long lonely life… Enjolras didn’t understand, he couldn’t understand. Grantaire never  _ wanted _ Enjolras to understand what he was living through.

He wasn’t ready for this confrontation.

He did want to talk about this. He didn’t want to talk about what he had unintentionally done. He didn’t want Enjolras to see him like this. His hair was a mess and his clothes were stained with more than just wine. He couldn’t remember the last time he had bathed, so he surely stunk, and Enjolras looked as perfect and beautiful as ever, standing there waiting for his reply.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” Grantaire confessed quietly. “I can’t— I am not ready for this.”

Enjolras was looking at him. He must have seen some of Grantaire’s distress, because the next time he spoke it was gentle, not at all like the fury he was using moments ago. “You choose to answer the door, so you must want to talk about something.”

“You were rather loud and… But I suppose I do have something to say,” Grantaire said. He knew what he was about to say would upset Enjolras, but he felt a sudden need to confess, to admit to all his wrong doings, to tell Enjolras his sins. He longed for Enjolras’ scorn, because at least he would know that he wasn’t influencing the man.

“What is it?” Enjolras asked. He sounded so concerned, just like he’d had on the other side of the door. Enjolras worried about him. Of course, Grantaire knew the truth, knew the concern was not real.

Grantaire went back to his bed and sat down. It was even more of a mess than the rest of his rooms, but Grantaire figured that if he was going to have awkward conversations, he might as well be comfortable.

“I didn’t know until recently just how much influence a Nation has over their people,” Grantaire revealed. “I need to apologize to you. I have done something terrible, to all of you.”

Enjolras placed a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, encouraging him to look up from the floor. Grantaire didn't though, he didn't have it in him to see the look on Enjolras’ face. “What did you do?”

“I have been manipulating you,” Grantaire admitted. “You hate me, it is only the fact that I am a Nation that prevents you from truly detesting me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Enjolras insisted. “I never did, even when I thought you were human.”

“But you do,” Grantaire countered. “You just don’t realize it.”

“I think I would be the first to know if I hated you,” Enjolras said dismissively.

“You wouldn’t be though,” Grantaire said, tightly gripping his bed sheets. “Because you love the revolution so much you cannot help but like me, even when it is unwarranted.”

“I do not understand what you are saying,” Enjolras fumed. He was really going to make Grantaire spell it out for him. It was a slow grueling punishment, but one Grantaire knew he deserved. 

“Speak plain,” Enjolras demanded. He sounded exacerbated, but not quite irate.

“It is as I said before, I have been manipulating you. I wasn’t aware of it, but I was,” Grantaire said, finally looking up at Enjolras’ eyes. Grantaire saw so much behind them, confusion, anger and a desperation to understand. He so wished he could give Enjolras what he wanted. “I had no idea that Nations had such a power over their people, but apparently we do. You do not hate me because you are  _ incapable _ of hating me. You would hate me if you could, but you cannot, I have taken that choice away from you.”

“That’s insane,” Enjolras said, his irritation was starting to come back in full force. 

“It is the truth. Think about it,” Grantaire insisted. “You do not favor the company of other pessimistic drunks. It is only me you put up with. Why is that? It is because I hold power over you. I have stolen your free will on this matter, just as I have done for all the Amis.”

“That’s insane,” Enjolras repeated. “I have never heard of anything like this.”

“These are things Nations keep secret,” Grantaire explained. “Whatever positive thing you might think or feel towards me, I assure you is because I am a Nation. You do not actually think of me as a person.”

“Did we not have this discussion two weeks ago?” Enjolras asked inflamed. “I thought we were clearing up our differences. I thought we were beginning to understand each other!”

“New information has come to light,” Grantaire said dismissively.

“And you have no room to talk! You don’t think of me as a person either! All this time you have gone off calling me things such as ‘Apollo’,” Enjolras grabbed Grantaire by the lapels of his shirt and pulled him to his feet in one quick fluid motion. Grantaire was caught by surprise and almost fell over. The only thing that kept him upright was Enjolras’ strong grip. “I thought you were making fun of me at first, but no you actually see me that way, don’t you?”

Grantaire didn’t have an answer that Enjolras would want to hear so he decided to keep quiet. For once his mouth obeyed him. Instead he concentrated on Enjolras’ hands gripping his shoulders and his hot heavy breath that left a ghost of a kiss on Grantaire’s skin. Had Enjolras always been this strong?

“I am not a religion to pray to. I am a human being,” Enjolras continued, and the force of his rage felt like a slap Grantaire in the face. “I am trying my hardest here. I am going to make mistakes, but I would make a lot less if you would  _ help _ me.”

For a moment it looked like Enjolras might cry. His eyes were scrunched up in anguish and all Grantaire wanted was to put a stop to his suffering. Enjolras let go of his shoulders and pushed off of him. Grantaire stumbled back his legs hitting the edge of his bed, but he managed to stay upright. Enjolras had turned around and walked away from him, putting distance between them. Grantaire couldn’t see Enjolras’ expression, but he knew it was not good.

He hadn’t meant to cause this. He thought he was helping by staying away, he thought he was protecting them.

After a minute of silence Enjolras finally spoke. “I don’t need your faith; I just need you.”

Maybe Enjolras didn’t need his faith, but he certainly had it.

“I believe what my people believe,” Grantaire said. “My people don’t believe in much anymore, but most of them believe in you.”

“You believe what you choose to believe.” Enjolras turned back to Grantaire; he almost looked normal again, which typically meant angry at Grantaire. “And you choose to believe that we can’t win. You choose to see me as some sort of savior, but refuse to actually let me help you.”

“I believe what my people believe,” Grantaire repeated, looking down at his bare feet and shuffling on his dirty floor. He really was a mess.

“ _ Bullshit _ .” Grantaire looked up surprised at the force of Enjolras’ words. “You were saying before how you were a person too, more than just an idea. You are capable of having your own opinions.”

Enjolras was right, he had said that but… it was complicated, so complicated, he didn’t even understand it himself. He just didn’t  _ recognize _ what he felt.

“I can’t tell the difference,” Grantaire admitted quietly.

“What does that even mean?” Enjolras was irritated by the way Grantaire kept talking in circles.

“It means—” Grantaire began, stopping in his tracks. He shouldn’t say this, he shouldn’t put this on Enjolras’ shoulders… but at the same time Enjolras deserved to know the truth. “It means that I look at you and I cannot tell if I love you or if my people do.”

The confession was followed by a cold silence. Grantaire had expected as much, but it pained him anyway. His heart was beating so fast; he looked down at the floor again, the walls, anywhere to avoid Enjolras’ gaze.

In the silence that followed, Grantaire heard Enjolras’ footsteps and, for a moment, he thought Enjolras had turned and left. It would be fair; he did not expect any more. Enjolras had every right to storm out and leave him here, he had every right to hate him. His status as a Nation simply prevented it.

But Enjolras hadn’t left, he had walked toward Grantaire instead.

Enjolras’ hand came up and cupped his cheek gently pulling his face up. Grantaire was caught suddenly by the beauty of Enjolras’ smile, the way his eyes crinkled slightly while looking at him. This was the second smile Enjolras had ever given him and he knew that he would never get enough of them, and that they would never fail to leave him in awe.

“I don’t know what I feel towards you either. But I know that you make me feel something— something that I haven’t ever felt towards another person,” Enjolras said as he tried to move Grantaire’s hair out of his face, but his sweat had dried it to his skin. Enjolras didn’t seem to mind standing so close to him even though he must smell horribly. “I don’t have experience in this, but I think that I might love you too.”

Grantaire felt each beat of his heart as it longed for Enjolras. He wanted to stay close to hold him forever, but that feeling quickly transformed to dread and guilt.

“Oh Enjolras…” Grantaire said in despair as he pushed Enjolras away. He refused to take advantage of Enjolras like this. “Do you not see? This is what I meant! I have been manipulating you, these aren’t your feelings.”

Enjolras looked so devastated at being pushed back that Grantaire felt the need to apologize again. He didn’t get the chance though, Enjolras was already responding in anger. “Don’t tell me what my feelings are! I know what I feel, Grantaire!”

“Clearly you don’t,” Grantaire countered. Perhaps it was cruel, but he needed Enjolras to realize that this was not what he really wanted. “If you knew what you felt, you would see that I am—“

“You are usually drunk and unreliable. You can be callous and cruel. You say things which hurt me,” Enjolras exclaimed. Grantaire knew all of these things to be true, but he still winced when they were thrown back into his face. “You are difficult to get along with and yet… I love speaking with you.”

“That is just proof that I am influencing you,” Grantaire interrupted before Enjolras could continue. The fact that Enjolras hated almost everything about him but still liked him was evidence enough to Grantaire.

“You didn’t let me finish!” Enjolras responded angrily. “You are also kind. You are always there to help our friends. You are intelligent and well read, every argument you make has a logical reason behind it. You counterbalance me, keep me on my toes… I like to fight with you.”

Grantaire didn’t know what to say to that because he felt much the same way. Enjolras was fun to rile up. He liked to see how the man’s mind worked, why he thought the things he did. He had learned far more about Enjolras during their debates than he had learned from drinking games with their other friends. He knew and understood Enjolras in a way he didn’t anyone else.

“Maybe the others do feel some sort of comradery to you. I don’t know, I can’t speak for them. Maybe it influences them to some degree, but don’t think that means that it isn’t real.” Enjolras pleaded hoping Grantaire would understand what he was saying, that some part of it might reach him. “Don’t think that they don’t love you. You didn’t see how worried everyone was when you didn’t show up to the meeting. You are their friend.”

Grantaire wanted this to be true. He wanted the Amis to actually like him. He wanted Enjolras to love him. He wanted to be more than just the personification of their ideas. He wanted to be a person. But he was a pessimist to his core and he just couldn’t believe this.

“You don’t understand because you are not a Nation,” Grantaire said dismissively.

“No, you don’t understand because you are not human,” Enjolras said, stepping up close to Grantaire again. He tried to step away, but the back of his legs hit the bed post, trapping him. “We care about our countries, but I assure you, we are not in love with them.

“I know what I feel towards the revolution. I have spent so much of my life in its service. I know exactly how much it means to me to see this country free.” Enjolras’ hands were on his face again, his thumb gently caressing his check. The movement was so soft and sweet, and Grantaire could cry from the sincerity that the movement held. “And I know what I feel towards you. Don’t insult me by claiming I don’t.”

“Even if I were to believe that. Even if I could accept that you love me as I am and not because of my influence, how could I ever know the same?” Grantaire asked. He placed his own hand on top of one of Enjolras’. He turned his face into Enjolras’ palm, breathing in the scent of him. “How am I to know my love for you is real?”

“Then you do love me?” Enjolras asked his eyes alight with hope. Seeing that hope directed at him was almost enough to make Grantaire’s heart beat out of his chest.

“How could I not love you?” Grantaire answered honestly.

Enjolras didn’t reply with words, instead he brought Grantaire’s face down towards his. Their lips meeting took everything out of Grantaire, all thoughts and senses, except for the warmth of Enjolras’ lips and the softness of his skin. No doubt he smelt terrible and tasted like wine and stale breath, but Enjolras didn’t seem to care, he just brought Grantaire closer.

Enjolras’ hands found their way into Grantaire’s hair. His nails gently scratched at Grantaire’s scalp. Grantaire couldn’t help the moan that left his lips when Enjolras gave his hair a firm tug. It was then that Enjolras’ tongue slipped past his lips and into his mouth. Grantaire had had sex with humans in the past, but nothing he had ever done could ever be compared to a kiss from Enjolras.

Grantaire’s hands found their way to Enjolras’s hips. He lost all sense of time under Enjolras’ touch. When Enjolras finally pulled away from him, Grantaire found himself leaning forward trying to chase after his lips.

Enjolras let out a tiny laugh and Grantaire thought it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

“Do you still think I don’t love you?” Enjolras asked. He had a self-satisfied smirk on his face, the same when he always had when he won an argument against Grantaire.

In truth, Grantaire didn’t know what to think. He knew it was possible that for Nations to influence their people, but maybe not like this? Maybe Francis was wrong? Sure, he was older and probably knew more about being a Nation than Grantaire did, but that didn’t mean he knew everything. He so badly wanted Francis to be wrong.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire answered honestly.

Enjolras seemed a bit disappointed by this answer, but only for a moment.

“It bothers you doesn’t it?” Enjolras asked as he took Grantaire’ hands into his own. “Thinking that you are hurting us— using us?”

“Of course, it does!” Grantaire said, offended at the accusation. Enjolras leaned up and gave him a quick kiss to silence him.

“Doesn’t that make it obvious that you do care about us?” Enjolras said squeezing his hand tightly. “If it wasn’t real, you wouldn’t care, you would just be happy to have us at your side. But you do care because you do love us.”

It was a nice thought, Grantaire wasn’t sure if it was true, but it was a nice thought.

“Maybe you can’t tell the difference between your feelings because you have never dedicated yourself to trying to find out,” Enjolras continued. “It was easier to just pretend that your emotions weren’t yours because then they weren’t your responsibility. Then you wouldn’t need to do something about them.”

Grantaire wanted that to be wrong, but he could see some logic in Enjolras’ words. He had never really cared to try to differentiate his emotions. He was so sure that Enjolras could never love him back, he had figured that it didn’t matter.

But then, even if Enjolras was right, even if their emotions were untampered by outside factors, that didn’t mean this was a good idea. They were such different people; they were of a different species, and Grantaire was not a good person. Enjolras was kind and passionate and wanted to make the world a better place and Grantaire was a terrible being with far too much blood on his hands.

“Enjolras, you need to understand, Nations are what our people want us to be, we are a reflection of our people. As our people change, so do we.” Grantaire looked down at their joined hands and recalled all of the blood they had shed. His hands had no right to sit in Enjolras’. “I am not the same person I used to be. I am different now than how I was ten years ago but, in my youth… I did many horrible things.”

“You speak of the reign of terror?” Enjolras asked, Grantaire could only nod in shame. “I am different from how I was ten years ago too. That is what it means to grow up. I would not hold this against you.”

“You should,” Grantaire argued. “I am a murderer.”

The blood of every person that had died in the revolution was on his hands, the same hands that Enjolras brought up to his lips and kissed.

“You did what you thought was right.” Grantaire opened his mouth to tell Enjolras he was wrong, that he thought too much of Grantaire, that he had too much faith. Enjolras stopped him with a stern look. “The years have been hard on us all, they have changed us, shaped us into the people we are now. It changed me into a person capable of loving you. I can’t regret that.”

“I am not an easy person to love.” Grantaire warned. It was one final attempt to talk Enjolras out of this, to convince him that he was better off with someone else, to demonstrate to him that he deserved more than Grantaire could offer. It didn’t work; Enjolras was not the type to be dissuaded when he had made up his mind.

“You think I would fall for someone who was easy to love? I like challenges.”

In all this world, there was only one thing he believed in with certainty. He didn’t know if his love for Enjolras was real, but he knew his faith in Enjolras was.

Maybe that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! They got together! It took almost 40k words, but they made it! Honestly, their relationship is far from perfect and arguably not healthy? But they are trying, that must count for something.
> 
> I have a lot to say about this chapter, but I don't feel like typing it out, so whatever.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Take care!
> 
> [Here](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/) is my blog! And [here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog! Feel free to talk to me about this fic, my others or anything else!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates 3 months later by accident… Whoops? Believe it or not, this fic really is 100% completed, I am just a disaster of a person. Still working on the sequel though. I keep getting distracted by other projects, most of which are really really stupid. People keep encouraging me to write crack fics. 
> 
> Okay the real reason I haven’t updated is because school got really crazy and I was too busy to go over my betas’ notes on the chapter and make edits. I am also sorry for taking so long to respond to your comments but I read every single one and they made me so so happy! I loved them a lot and they encouraged me, even when I didn’t have the emotional energy to respond to them. Thank you all so much.
> 
> **Warnings:**  
>  Discussion (and kind of idolisation?) of death  
> Discussion of chronic illness (kind of?)  
> Alcoholism (not more than normal for R though)
> 
> My amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/), [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet), and [les Amis DCD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD)

Grantaire went to the meeting the next week. He was a bit nervous about it, scared that they would be upset by his absence. He was relieved to find that no one was angry though; worried yes, but not angry. It was moments like these that he remembered how lucky he was to have them.

His story of something important and sudden coming up was received with polite skepticism but no one out right called him a liar. Instead they just politely hovered and between the lot of them asked him a couple dozen times if everything was alright.

He hated worrying them but couldn’t deny that it was nice having people care about him.

Grantaire sat where he always did with his head leaning on Bossuet’s shoulder and a drink in his hand. He watched Enjolras speak with a smile on his face. Enjolras was so full of beautiful determination, Grantaire could close his eyes and let himself be carried away by Enjolras’ words. When it was like this, he could almost believe that Enjolras would succeed.

The meeting passed in a gentle warmth of friendship, wine and conversation.

Grantaire stayed past the end of the meeting, waited when some started to leave for the evening, lingering behind till Enjolras finished with whatever it was he was working on. He was allowed to do this now, allowed to seek out Enjolras’ company and conversation, and he was not above doing so.

When Enjolras finished speaking to Courfeyrac and shuffling away his papers into his satchel, he walked toward Grantaire. He put a hand on Grantaire's shoulder and gave it a loving squeeze that made Grantaire’s heart flutter.

“Would you care to walk home with me?” Enjolras asked casually, as though it was something they did every meeting and not something monumental.

Grantaire could never say no to an offer like that, he craved Enjolras’ companionship like a starving man craved bread. He waved goodbye to Joly and Bossuet who seemed content to continue their drinking with Bahorel. Grantaire didn’t miss the look Combeferre gave him on the way out, he acted innocent enough, but Grantaire knew the man saw more than he let on. Or perhaps Enjolras had said something? Combeferre was his best friend, after all.

They had confessed their love a little under a week ago and everything was new. Grantaire didn’t know what to say, how to avoid starting an argument, how to avoid overstepping boundaries, how to stop Enjolras from falling out of love with him. It was nerve wracking, but as they walked down the stairs with their shoulders close enough to bump, his fear was easy to forget.

The street was quiet and blissfully empty by the time they stepped out of the building, which was just as well because Grantaire was filled with some vague fear that they would be seen. It was silly since they were not doing anything suspicious, of either the revolutionary or romantically indecent variety. Yet, he was still fearful that people would look at him standing beside Enjolras and somehow _know_.

Enjolras didn’t seem to share his fears in any way, he just turned towards Grantaire and spoke with a calm smile on his face. “Perhaps you would like to join me for the evening?”

It was such a forward request that Grantaire found himself spluttering to think of a response. The blood traveling to his face must have made Enjolras realize what he had just said because he quickly began to back pedal.

“I didn’t mean—” Enjolras said, putting up his hands and waving them in some attempt to get his message across. It took him a minute, but he finally seemed to figure out what he wanted to say. “I just thought you might want to talk some more?”

“Yes, I would love to,” Grantaire admitted, a smile gracing his face. “Did Courfeyrac ever tell you I know all the best places in Paris?”

“Should he have?” Enjolras asked, eyebrows raised.

“Definitely,” Grantaire said, stretching out his arm. Enjolras accepted the offered appendage with a blush, locking their arms together. “But I can scold him for not telling everyone of my amazing abilities later.”

Enjolras snorted, “will you now?”

“Oh yes, he will pay for this transgression,” Grantaire playfully insisted as he pulled Enjolras along, “but first, I have places to show you.”

Grantaire took Enjolras to a residential area near the Seine. They kept walking till Grantaire found the one house in particular he was looking for. The owner of the building was a republican, Grantaire felt it. He had let Grantaire sit up on his roof to paint the water at sunset a few years ago. He had told Grantaire he could come back whenever he wanted, and Grantaire had gladly accepted the offer. Grantaire understood better now that the offer was likely made because the man had sensed what Grantaire really was. Grantaire felt a bit guilty over it, but he wanted to show Enjolras a good evening more.

Grantaire let go of Enjolras’ arm so he could climb up the ladder leading to the roof. When he got to the top, he looked down to see that Enjolras hadn’t followed him. Enjolras was looking up at him concerned, clearly conflicted about whether or not to follow.

“Trust me,” Grantaire said holding his hand out over the edge. He was rewarded with Enjolras relenting and grabbing hold of the ladder. He didn’t need Grantaire’s help getting up but accepted his hand anyways. Grantaire tried not to feel too happy about that.

“What are we doing here?” Enjolras whispered in, clearly scared to be caught.

“The man who lives here is a friend of mine,” Grantaire said, sitting down and gesturing for Enjolras to join him. “He might be upset if we wake him, but he won’t get the police or something.”

Enjolras looked relieved by this and sat down with Grantaire near the edge of the building. Enjolras looked around the roof at the plants growing in pots and the empty street before them. Then he finally turned back to Grantaire.

“I still don’t get why we are here,” Enjolras confessed.

Grantaire let out a laugh, but he quickly tried to silence himself so as to not wake anyone up.

“We are here because it is a beautiful view, Enjolras.” Grantaire chuckled then added bravely, “It is a common courtship activity.”

“Oh right of course,” Enjolras agreed as red began to dust his cheeks. He was almost as red as his coat and Grantaire couldn’t help but think it incredibly charming.

They sat in silence for a moment looking over the roof at the Seine across from them as it reflected the moonlight. In the silence it became embarrassingly obvious that this was not Enjolras’ kind of date. Spending time with Enjolras needed to be engaging, they needed to talk, to discuss and pick at each other’s thoughts.

“I am sorry this is a bad idea wasn’t it?” Grantaire asked, then began to get up. “We can leave if you want.”

Enjolras stopped him with his hand and pulled him back down. He turned to look Grantaire in the eyes, a way of showing just how serious he was. “This was a lovely idea. I just… I don’t think I see the world the way you do,” Enjolras confessed then gestured ahead of him towards the river. “All I see is water.”

“It is just water I suppose,” Grantaire said shrugging his shoulders. “I guess I am just too much of an artist, at times.”

“I have never seen your paintings.” Enjolras said. “Some of the others have but I haven’t.”

“They are nothing special,” Grantaire said remembering the last auction he was featured in; he’d been forced to carry unsold paintings home with him. “But if you really want, I could show you some time.”

“I would love to see your paintings,” Enjolras said earnestly. “Maybe our next date?”

Grantaire was so glad to be offered another date he couldn’t speak, all he could do was nod. He even forgot to be embarrassed at the idea of Enjolras actually looking at his artwork.

“We should probably head back,” Enjolras said into the darkness. “It is getting late and unfortunately I have things I must do tomorrow.”

Enjolras actually sounded disappointed to be leaving, Grantaire tried not to read too much into that.

When they got back to solid ground Grantaire turned to Enjolras and asked boldly, “Can I walk you home?”

Enjolras smiled brightly. “I would like that.”

On the walk to Enjolras’ apartment, Grantaire pointed out some of his favorite sights around the city. The place where ducks went to sleep at night, the florist that left hanging plants in their window, the little things that Grantaire loved about this city. Enjolras listened with rapt attention, as though everything Grantaire was saying was important.

“She has two mean cats. I imagine they are good at keeping the mice away, but they will jump you too, if you’re not careful,” Grantaire said, pointing to a small dwelling down a street they were passing by. Enjolras wasn’t looking in that direction though, he was staring straight at Grantaire instead. “Enjolras?”

“Will you promise not to disappear again?” Enjolras asked, suddenly serious.

Grantaire moved his hands from where he was previously pointing to Enjolras’s shoulder. “I won’t go anywhere.” Grantaire assured him. He still wasn’t sure how much power they both held over each other, but there was no way of knowing and Grantaire wanted to spend every possible moment by Enjolras’ side.

“Besides, I belong to you Enjolras,” Grantaire joked, giving Enjolras’ shoulder a squeeze, “Where would I go?”

“Don’t say that,” Enjolras frowned. “It’s not true.”

It was kind of true, but he didn’t want to fight with Enjolras right now. This evening had been so close to perfect, Grantaire really didn’t want to muck it up. He settled on saying, “I exist _because_ of you and _for_ you.” 

He should have known better than to think that would be enough to calm Enjolras. If anything, Enjolras seemed _more_ upset. His jaw was clenched tight and his shoulders were rigid. 

Grantaire tried to put a stop to Enjolras’ worries before they got any further. “Nations exist to serve the people. It is what I am, it doesn’t bother me.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

It was hard to explain, mainly because Grantaire didn’t understand it himself. There were many things about his existence that bothered him, but this wasn’t one of them. “It is comforting in a way, knowing that I exist for a reason. I was put on this earth for you.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Enjolras repeated. “It doesn’t seem wrong to you in any way? Not at all?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Grantaire amended, “there are a lot of things about being a Nation that I hate, like the pain, but—“

“The pain?” Enjolras straightened up looking concerned. Grantaire should have known by now that he needed to watch his mouth; he can never quite seem to manage that around Enjolras though.

“When my people are suffering, I can feel it,” Grantaire admitted with a nonchalant shrug. “The wine helps, but sometimes I still feel the pain of it. It's not a big deal.”

Apparently, it was a big deal to Enjolras, though, because as Grantaire tried to keep walking, Enjolras stopped him by grabbing the tail of his waistcoat.

“That’s why you drink so much…” Enjolras said sadly as he came to a sudden realization. “I am sorry Grantaire, I didn’t know or I wouldn’t have said—“

“Don’t worry about it Enjolras,” Grantaire said, taking Enjolras’ hands off his waistcoat and into his own instead. “Don’t feel guilty, you were right to think me a drunkard.”

“It was wrong of me to make assumptions without knowing,” Enjolras said seriously, meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “You had a reason.”

“All drunkards have a reason,” Grantaire said as he began to walk again with Enjolras trailing behind him. “It doesn’t make any of us less of a drunkard.”

“I am sorry that your life is like this,” Enjolras said so solemnly that Grantaire felt a bit guilty for complaining about being a Nation in the first place.

“My life is not so bad,” Grantaire said with a smirk. He was aiming for lightheartedness in his tone, but he might have missed slightly. “I might not have the same freedom that humans have to go and do whatever I want but… I have a purpose here. And I have you.”

“You don’t exist for me or for anyone else Grantaire,” Enjolras said seriously. “You are your own person. You deserve the same freedoms as everyone else.”

“What are you going to do, Enjolras? Set me free?” Grantaire gave out a self-deprecating laugh.

“Yes!” Enjolras said enthusiastically. It was loud enough that Grantaire had to shush him so they didn’t attract attention to themselves so late at night. “That’s what we are all trying to do here! I know you know that!”

“This is what I am Enjolras,” Grantaire tried to explain calmly. “You can’t free me from that, except maybe in death.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Enjolras said angrily, grabbing Grantaire’s arm in a grip that was tight enough to hurt a regular human. “You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.”

“Of course, I won’t,” Grantaire said, trying to calm Enjolras down. “I am a Nation. I will continue to live as long as people believe in me, and I know you are not going to stop believing in the revolution anytime soon.”

Enjolras seemed satisfied with this statement and lessened the grip on Grantaire’s arm. He was content with the promise of Grantaire’s safety. Grantaire noticed that Enjolras made no promises about his own life, however; Enjolras was a brilliant man, he knew the danger of what he was getting into.

Enjolras slowly dragged his hands down Grantaire’s arms till they rested just above Grantaire’s hands. This intimate moment was hidden in the dark of an alleyway, but to Grantaire it seemed like this alley was all that existed in the world.

“When we win,” Enjolras said with determination, “I promise I am going to find a way to set you free too, even if it takes me a thousand years.”

* * *

It was clear Enjolras didn’t like the painting.

Grantaire tried not to be offended, he doubted Enjolras knew much about art and he was sure Enjolras didn’t mean it in a cruel way.

“The colors are very bright,” Enjolras said as if that was a compliment.

The painting of Francis was only partially finished. Mostly it was just his body and the background, things he was able to work on while Francis was away. The face was mostly blank, just vague shapes where the distinctive features would eventually go. 

It was an odd painting because Francis was dressed as a normal man, not in a special military uniform. It was just a faceless man reading a book. Grantaire wasn't sure this would sell well; people liked Nations because they were fascinated by them. Most portraits of Nations were ethereal and majestic. In this picture Francis looked human.

“It is alright,” Grantaire assured. “You can just say you hate it. I take no offense.”

“No, it is not that at all!” Enjolras turned away from the painting back towards Grantaire as he hurried to reassure. “I just don’t understand why you would paint this.”

“Why would I paint France, you mean?” Grantaire asked. He knew exactly where this conversation was going, but he was unsure how Enjolras would react to learning that he was in regular contact with Francis.

“He is not, France,” Enjolras said stubbornly, crossing his arms across his chest. “They only call him that because people don’t know you actually exist. He is the monarchy, our enemy.”

Enjolras was technically correct but even so, Francis was more the personification of France than Grantaire was.

“Yes, but people love him,” Grantaire countered, “especially rich people. In case you have forgotten, I need to pay the bills somehow and I think a painting of France will sell.”

Normally, Nations didn’t need to work, at least not in the traditional sense— not the way humans did. Most Nations got their money from the government, a payment for all their services to the country. Although Francis, Grantaire knew, never really needed to pay or earn anything; he simply asked his assistant for whatever he wanted, and it was there the next day. Grantaire, however, didn’t have a government there to pay for the roof over his head or the wine in his belly.

“Maybe so,” Enjolras admitted. “But you don’t think it seems a bit like a sellout? You painting him, it doesn’t make sense.”

“He isn’t a bad person Enjolras,” Grantaire confessed as he prepared himself for Enjolras’ anger at his confession.

Enjolras’ head snapped towards Grantaire. The desire for a drink was strong and Grantaire didn’t really want to fight the urge, so he turned towards his kitchen to grab a bottle of wine. Enjolras naturally followed him.

“You know him?” Enjolras asked incredulously. Grantaire promised himself he would be honest with Enjolras, if whatever was happening between them was going to work, he needed to be. Besides, Enjolras deserved honesty. That didn’t make it any easier to confess things he knew Enjolras didn’t want to hear.

“Yes, we are friends,” Grantaire winced as he confessed.

“Friends?” Enjolras said skeptically. “How can you be friends?”

Grantaire could see where Enjolras was coming from with this. When he had first met Francis, he had thought the same thing, couldn’t believe that friendship like this was possible. He had been wrong though, he realized that now, but he wasn’t sure Enjolras would be able to understand.

“Nations live a long time. They get lonely and find comfort in each other,” Grantaire explained as he pulled down a bottle from his cabinet. “It is hardly his fault what the king and queen do.”

Enjolras grabbed the bottle from Grantaire’s hands before he could open it. It was almost enough to make Grantaire change the subject, but he knew Enjolras wasn’t going to let him have what he wanted till he got an answer he was satisfied with.

“Before you knew about me, you used to think he was a good person too,” Grantaire said. Enjolras frowned; he surely disliked the fact that Grantaire was right about this. “You just don’t like him because of what he represents. He is a person too, Enjolras, just like me.”

Grantaire was glad that this wasn’t more of an argument, neither of them even raised their voices. Only a few weeks prior, even a slight disagreement like this would have turned into a fight. It warmed his heart to realize that they were getting better, that they were learning to understand each other and communicate.

“Is there nothing else that can be done about your pain?” Enjolras asked as he surrendered Grantaire’s bottle reluctantly.

What he had told Enjolras on their walk before was the truth, he did use the wine to self-medicate away the pain, but he also just liked to drink. It occurred to him that Enjolras must think that he was in horrific pain every time he drank.

“None that I have found so far,” Grantaire confessed. He looked down at the unopened bottle in his hands in consideration. He had grabbed the bottle because he had thought an argument would erupt between them, but it hadn't. He found that he didn’t need the wine right now; he would rather be sober with Enjolras, he would rather remember these moments in perfect clarity.

Grantaire put the bottle down on his table, giving Enjolras a small smile. Enjolras looked at him questioningly but didn’t say anything. Enjolras still disliked his drinking and made it clear he preferred Grantaire sober, but he put up with it with it without complaint now.

“Come on,” Grantaire said, patting Enjolras’ shoulder. “Let me show you some of my other paintings.”

True to his word, Grantaire showed him every painting he had. None were very good, these were the rejects that didn’t sell, but Enjolras seemed impressed anyways. Yet, his eyes kept falling back to the partial portrait of Francis leaning against Grantaire’s wall, like he still couldn’t quite understand it.

It was then that an idea occurred to Grantaire. “Let’s turn it into something else?”

“Turn what into what?” Enjolras asked, confused turning his eyes away from the painting back to Grantaire.

“The painting of Francis,” Grantaire said as he went to grab the painting and placed it up on his easel. “You don’t like it, so let’s make it into something else.”

“No don’t!” Enjolras made a quick move to stop Grantaire before he could reach his paints. “It is a lovely painting; I just don’t get it. It is your art, please don’t change it on my account.”

Grantaire looked back at the painting. He often didn’t like his own work, but he actually thought this one was rather good. He thought this was likely because of the inherent beauty of the model. But mostly he liked how human it made Francis look; how human it made him feel. Part of him kind of wanted to finish it… but it was his only unfinished painting and he had no blank canvas left. They were expensive and no one had been buying his art lately.

He wanted to finish it. But he really wanted to paint Enjolras. He never thought he would be gifted the opportunity to.

“I always wanted to paint you.” Grantaire confessed.

Enjolras turned to him confused and asked, “Why?”

Grantaire thought it was rather obvious, Enjolras was beautiful beyond belief, he was already art. It would be a tragedy for his likeness to never be preserved. But then, Grantaire had seen many beautiful people before and never felt such a strong urge to paint them before. This was a feeling reserved solely for Enjolras.

“Because I love you.” Grantaire answered honestly.

It was a beautiful sight to see Enjolras’ whole face turn to a bright shade of red. It was enough to fill Grantaire to the brim with the desire to kiss him. Which was, funnily enough, something he could do now. So, he took Enjolras’ face into his hands and placed a kiss onto each of his bright red cheeks.

Enjolras let out a little huff that Grantaire had come to associate with Enjolras being happy but trying to pretend he wasn’t. It was one of Grantaire’s favorite sounds, right after Enjolras’ real laugh, a thing he was blessed to have heard multiple times now.

Enjolras turned his head and caught Grantaire’s lips into a kiss of his own and Grantaire melted against him. When he pulled away Enjolras was smirking like he had won something and whispered into Grantaire’s ear, “I love you too.”

In moments like, this Grantaire even believed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire repainting the portrait to be Enjolras rather than Francis was supposed to be symbolic. Whether or not anyone else actually agrees with me on this remains to be seen lol. But also Francis in Hetalia looks almost exactly how people often draw Enjolras so there is a joke in there somewhere.
> 
> Just recently the works for the ExR games went off anon, so go check out everyone’s awesome stuff [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/enjoltairegames2020)
> 
> [Here](https://feliswhiteflag.tumblr.com/) is my blog! And [here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog! Feel free to talk to me about this fic, my others or anything else!
> 
> Thank you for reading and stay safe everyone!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:**  
>  Discussion of death  
> Depiction of lung/chest illness  
> Religious discussion
> 
> My amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/), [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet), and [les Amis DCD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD)

General Lamarque died at eleven in the morning on a Friday.

Grantaire had done what he did every Friday morning and joined Joly and Bossuet for a late breakfast at the Musain. It was a pleasant affair, but wine and friends always was. Joly was talking about something interesting he had learned in one of his classes. Bossuet was leaning in slightly, hanging off of Joly’s words the way he always did.

If Grantaire didn’t already know that their relationship was something not quite permitted in polite society, this would be the thing that tipped him off. They always looked at each other with such wonder when the other was speaking. It was soft and sickeningly sweet. Grantaire wished he could say he and Enjolras had the same thing they shared with one another and Musichetta, but in truth he didn’t know what he had with Enjolras.

In the evenings they would hold each other. Enjolras would say that he loved him, and Grantaire still wasn’t sure if he believed that, but he didn’t think he could keep away from Enjolras. They felt something for each other, Grantaire just didn’t quite understand what.

It didn’t matter though. He was allowed to touch Enjolras, to kiss his marble skin. They had spent evenings dining together and walking through the streets of Paris. Grantaire had in those moments everything he could want in life. He felt happier these days than he had throughout the entirety of his existence. He had friends who knew what he was and accepted him. He had Enjolras who loved him. He had a friend of his own species. He could almost trick himself into thinking that everything was going to be ok.

But then reality barreled into him in the form of his lungs refusing to work.

He couldn’t breathe no matter how hard he worked to pull air into his lungs. He felt Joly’s hands on him attempting to keep him steady. His chest burned as a part of him died. He knew what it was, General Lamarque had passed, and he had left a hole within Grantaire.

He could hear the café’s patrons talking but all he could concentrate on through his pain was the realization of what this meant. Everything was getting blurry around the edges and he knew he would pass out soon, but first he needed to warn them.

“General Lamarque is dead,” Grantaire whimpered.

The only confirmation he got of their understanding was the way Bossuet’s movements stilled in shock. Whatever happened after that, Grantaire wasn’t awake to witness.

* * *

Grantaire woke up in Enjolras’ bed. In any other situation this would have made Grantaire very happy, but in this moment, he felt disquieted. From the darkness of the window, Grantaire knew it was night and he must have been unconscious for most of the day. Why he had been brought back to Enjolras’ apartment was a mystery.

Perhaps Joly and Bossuet understood him more than he would like to admit…

Next to him Enjolras was asleep, his face tucked up against Grantaire’s shoulder. Enjolras was so warm and the stillness of the room was so peaceful, Grantaire thought he could fall right back asleep, but the desire to know what had happened while he was unconscious out won out.

Still, it felt wrong to wake Enjolras. He looked so young in his sleep, the weight of the world that he had placed upon his own shoulders had vanished, leaving him youthful in a way he never was when he was awake. His golden curls spread out messily over his pillow and Grantaire felt the urge to run his fingers through those strands.

Then, Grantaire remembered that they were courting now, and he  _ could _ touch Enjolras’ hair. That thought was the only encouragement he needed to bring his fingers down to Enjolras’ head. He tried to be quiet and gentle so as to avoid waking Enjolras but that didn’t work; as soon as Grantaire began to move his arm Enjolras’ eyes snapped open.

He immediately looked stressed and worried. Grantaire hated that he was likely the cause of that, or at the very least a big part of it.

“I am sorry for waking you,” Grantaire said placing a reassuring hand on Enjolras’ cheek

Enjolras’ muscles relaxed, he looked relieved at hearing Grantaire speak.

“How are you feeling?” Enjolras asked, his eyes scanning Grantaire’s body up and down looking for some kind of visible sign of distress. When he didn’t find any, he frowned and looked up at Grantaire, confused.

“I am fine,” Grantaire assured. “Nations heal fast and I wasn’t even really injured.”

“All that pain…” Enjolras wondered aloud. “It came from General Lamarque passing?”

Grantaire didn’t know if that meant he was still moaning in pain when he was brought here for Enjolras to hear, or if he had just been told as much by Joly and Bossuet. He decided not to ask; he was unsure which was worse. Grantaire nodded but the movement made him vaguely dizzy. 

“Yes, he had a big effect on the people.”

Enjolras probably already figured as much. He made a move to get up and out of bed, but Grantaire grabbed his arm, trying to keep him in place. “Stay?” Grantaire pleaded hoping that Enjolras would come back to bed.

“You were just unconscious Grantaire!” Enjolras said. “I am going to get Combeferre to look over you.”

Grantaire let go of Enjolras’ arm allowing him to stand. “Combeferre is here?”

“Of course, he is,” Enjolras said as if it were obvious. “He wasn’t going to leave you alone like that. We thought you were dying.” Enjolras spluttered out his words like it bothered him just remembering it. “Joly never would have left if Combeferre hadn’t agreed to stay here with us tonight.”

“And Combeferre didn’t—” Grantaire looked around himself at Enjolras’ bed where they had both been tucked together sleeping just moments before. “He didn’t think it odd, us sharing a bed?”

“I have but one couch, and Combeferre is currently using it himself,” Enjolras said dismissively. He looked down at himself tugging the fabric of his nightshirt slightly, a self-conscious, nervous tick. “Besides he— he understands.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure what that meant, what exactly Combeferre supposedly understood but he doubted Enjolras would answer. Whatever it was, it wasn’t Enjolras’ secret to tell.

“Let Combeferre sleep,” Grantaire said, giving Enjolras a gentle smile. “I really am fine now.”

Enjolras looked torn, he wanted Grantaire to be safe, but Grantaire could see the way exhaustion clung to his form. Grantaire patted the empty bed space next to him. “It is late, and the coming days are going to be busy. We will need all the rest we can get.”

That thought seemed to win Enjolras over. He curled back into Grantaire’s open arms. Grantaire noticed how perfectly the man fit into his arms. He only wished that he could find a way to make this moment last forever.

* * *

Now that General Lamarque was dead, Grantaire feared what would come. He could feel the anticipation of his people under his skin. He could feel their fear as they wondered what his death might mean for them. They awaited the revolution that people whispered about in the streets. Everything was building up, coming to a head.

It would be over soon, one way or another.

When Francis arrived at his door, it was with a sad smile, a bottle of wine and an iris, the symbol of France. Grantaire knew this was a goodbye. Throughout the last few months, Grantaire had come to know Francis rather well. He considered the man a friend and would be sad to see him go. This was the way of the world, though: one of them had to die. Grantaire was pretty sure it was going to be him.

He was alright with this, had made his peace with it. He just wished that the Amis didn’t have to die too.

Walking in, Francis stopped to look at the finished portrait propped up against the wall of his kitchen.

“You finished it. Who is he?” Francis asked, gesturing to the picture that was once of Francis but now wore Enjolras’ face.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said simply because describing him fully in only a few words was impossible.

“Your leader,” Francis said, squatting down to his knees to get a better look at the painting. “He is quite beautiful. I can see what you see in him.”

Grantaire wanted to tell Francis that it was so much more than appearances. That Enjolras was beautiful in every way, inside and out. What Grantaire felt for him ran deeper than he could express, but something in Francis’ eyes told him that he already knew all that.

“You look better than the last time I saw you,” Francis said as he got up. He looked at Grantaire fully as if he was trying to spot any damage. “I am glad. I was worried about the effect my drunken ramblings had on you. I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

“You were right though.” Grantaire shrugged. “I can’t know if what he feels is really real. I can’t know what I feel is really real either, but… maybe it doesn’t really matter. That’s what we decided, at least.”

“Then you two talked about it then?” Francis gave him a warm smile as he sat down on Grantaire’s kitchen chair. “I am glad! Love is a good look on you. It brightens your whole face.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Grantaire spluttered, a blush spreading across his face. Francis continued on not caring for Grantaire’s embarrassment.

“Enjoy love while you have it. It is quick to disappear.”

It was a chilly thought, but Grantaire already knew it well. The end was coming. He wasn’t ready but then he already knew that he never would be. His friends… they were never his to keep.

“I know.” Grantaire said. He pulled out two glasses for the both of them, it was a familiar action, but it felt more significant now. This would be the last time they did this. Grantaire sat down and Francis poured their drinks.

They drank in silence. There wasn’t much to say, not really. That’s why Grantaire was surprised when Francis started speaking again.

“You think about death often,” Francis commented. “Do you also often think about what comes next?”

Grantaire only took a little offense to the blunt remark that he frequently thought about death. He was simply preparing for the inevitable.

“If you haven’t noticed I am making things up as I go,” Grantaire said glancing over at Francis curiously. “I don’t really see any reason to plan for a future I won’t be here to see.”

“No, I don’t mean like that,” Francis explained while looking down at his cup, refusing to meet Grantaire’s gaze? “I meant religiously.”

“You are referring to heaven?” Grantaire scoffed.

“Not a believer, I take it?”

“You could say that.” Grantaire had never found any reason to have faith like that. He wondered if it had something to do with the removal of religion when he was first created. “I don’t believe in things that cannot be explained.”

“By that logic, you cannot believe in yourself,” Francis countered, finally looking at Grantaire as if to gauge his reaction. “After all, the existence of Nations is still something that no one has been able to explain.”

Many scientists had tried and many more had their own theories on why countries had personifications. Combeferre had studied historical records of Nations, one of his hobbies. He now considered it his duty to learn as much as he could for scientific purposes. Grantaire indulged him but he knew that his research would never see light of day. Combeferre was going to die soon if he insisted on going to the barricades.

“Yes, but people can see that we exist. You can feel our presence.” To demonstrate, Grantaire poked Francis in the side with his finger. “It’s different.”

“Is it?” Francis asked. “I am not so sure it is. Many people claim that they can feel the presence of God around them. I don’t know if I believe, but as a being whose existence also cannot be explained, I think it best to reserve judgement.”

“Why do you bring this up?” Grantaire asked.

“You have rubbed off on me,” Francis admitted while fiddling with the handle of his cup. “I have spent more time lately thinking about the end of my life.”

Grantaire laughed. “Sorry to have been such a bad influence.”

“You should be,” Francis responded while giving him a revenge poke. His good humor died quickly though to be replaced with a frown. “I cannot help but wonder though… Do you think Nations get to go to heaven, too?”

Considering Grantaire didn’t actually think the place existed, the question seemed rather pointless. He almost said as much, but he had just enough social grace to realize that was probably a rude thing to say.

“Sure,” Grantaire said with a shrug, “why wouldn’t we?”

“Well the Bible never says one way or the other,” Francis said. It was clear this was bothering Francis; these thoughts were weighing heavy on his mind. Grantaire wondered if it had anything to do with France’s strong Christian population. Grantaire supposed it was normal to think about death before you marched into battle. “But it does heavily imply that a soldier is not sinning by taking a life during a war. It makes me wonder then, if the soldier does not carry the sin, then who does?”

Grantaire could see where Francis was going with his line of thought, but he had no good replies for him. Religion was not his area of study.

“What did Joan say on the matter?” Grantaire asked remembering that Francis’ lost love was a religious expert and probably more qualified than him to answer these questions.

Francis slumped back in his chair and looked up at the corner of Grantaire’s roof that had begun to leak weeks ago. Depending on his mood, Grantaire either found the dripping relaxing or infuriating.

“She believed that there was a place for every soul by God’s side,” Francis admitted quietly.

“Well, there is your answer,” Grantaire said giving Francis’ shoulder a friendly squeeze. Francis didn’t seem happy with that answer though.

“But do beings such as us even have souls?” Francis asked.

Grantaire didn’t have an answer for that either. These were not the questions he asked himself or things that kept him up at night. The only thing that mattered to him was keeping his people alive another day. The only thing that mattered was being with Enjolras just a little while longer.

So maybe he didn’t have a soul, but he did have love. Surely that counted for something?

“I hardly think it is our fault when humans do bad things,” Grantaire countered.

“We are the personification of their collective ideals. By that logic do we not exist to bare their sins for them?” Francis asked. “Are we not the scapegoats for all the wrongs they have committed, supposedly in our names? Did He not make us for this purpose?”

Grantaire thought back to what Enjolras had said before. Enjolras wanted to save him, he thought that Grantaire deserved to live freely, just as every human did. Enjolras thought he existed on this Earth for more than just being a servant to the people. Enjolras thought he deserved more.

“Is that what you think we are?” Grantaire asked, “Their scapegoats?”

“I suppose it is highly subjective. I am sure every Nation has their own opinion on the matter.” Francis said looking off into space with a wistful look on his face. “But if I had to describe myself, explain my own existence, I suppose I would say... that I’m like a ship, the government is the sails, the people are the wind, and time is the sea.”

He phrased it poetically, a beautiful metaphor. Grantaire thought he understood Enjolras' disgust now, when Grantaire had described his role before. No matter how beautifully you described it, it remained appalling.

“So you see yourself as an object?” Grantaire asked, horrified. “Something to be used and tossed away?”

“Not tossed away no, as long as there are people who repair the ship, it can be used forever, can’t it?” Francis said this, as though that made any it better, as though the dehumanization was better because of their immortality, as though they  _ deserved _ it. As if all the suffering and hardship was their punishment for the gift of immortality. 

“And you don’t think we deserve more than that?” Grantaire asked. He wasn't sure when he had started thinking that they might deserve better, that  _ he _ deserved better too, but somewhere along the line he had started to think just that. Didn't they deserve freedom too? “That we deserve to  _ be _ more than that?”

“I think it was never about what we deserve,” Francis answered solemnly. “This is simply what we are. Maybe this is all we were made to be.”

Maybe that was foolish, but Grantaire didn’t find comfort in the idea of God making him, quite the opposite. He found comfort in the idea that humans made him. Humans he understood, they were good, even if a bit flawed sometimes.

From the moment Grantaire had understood what it meant to be a Nation, he had hated the fact that he was one. But that had changed over the last month surrounded by the Amis who apparently really did like him exactly as he was. For the first time in his life he was comfortable with what he was.

Grantaire thought of the Amis, who were so amazingly good, and he found it comforting. He liked the idea of being their creation.

“He really must not have liked us much to make us into what we are,” Grantaire said, because he knew that what brought him comfort was unlikely to do the same for Francis. “If he intends to punish us for other people’s actions, then he must really hate us, in which case we were screwed from the start.”

Grantaire glanced down at the now empty cup in his hands. Already their evening was coming to an end. “But if he is as just and fair as the Bible claims, then I think there will be a place for us.”

They certainly deserved a place after all the weight they carried so that their people might continue on.

“I pray you are right,” Francis said as he finished off the last of his own glass. There was a moment of silence before Francis spoke up again. “You understand that if we meet on the battlefield, we cannot be friends?”

“I know,” Grantaire said. He understood why it must be this way, but it would still sadden him to be forced to cross swords with a friend. But Francis had to stand by his people, just as Grantaire had to stand by the Amis.

“I don’t plan to be there,” Francis explained. “But if things get serious, it is possible I might be called in.”

Grantaire hoped that wouldn’t happen, but he accepted the possibility.

When Francis left, he gave Grantaire a warm hug and a kiss on each cheek. It felt like an apology for what was to come. Grantaire accepted it with as much grace as he could muster.

When they next met, it would be as enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing [merelydovely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelydovely/pseuds/merelydovely) helped me do some research for this chapter. She found and translated from French [this](https://books.google.com/books?id=4wgVAAAAIAAJ&pg=RA13-PA3&lpg=RA13-PA3&dq=j+v+lavallee+secretaire+de+lamarque&source=bl&ots=MGJlC-usyR&sig=ACfU3U0iUoeUYy4HpyRp1RMr583ccGJDHA&hl=fr&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjwhv3znOLoAhVULX0KHXz8BywQ6AEwAHoECAkQAQ#v=onepage&q=j%20v%20lavallee%20secretaire%20de%20lamarque&f=false) fascinating primary source. It is a weekly worker's journal published between 1831 and 1834. This printed letter was written by Lamarque's secretary and that edition of the journal was published June 10 1832. Apparently, General Lamarque last speaks at 10:15 a.m. and is dead by 11 a.m. on June 1 1832. The secretary claims his last words were, “patrie.” 
> 
> Thank you Dove for your help! I am so happy to be able to add more historical accuracy to my writing! 
> 
> Francis gives Grantaire and Iris, which is the symbol of France as a sort of symbolic passing of the torch. He is acknowledging that the Amis could win, in which case he would die and Grantaire would graduate from being The French Revolution, to The French Republic.
> 
> The speech Francis gives in this chapter is an edited version of the one he gave in Hetalia Episode 105: Though I May Depart, You Shall Remain. This is one of the few serious episodes on the series where he essentially attempts to explain what it is like to be a Nation to a human, and his explanation is pretty dark when you think about it? Hetalia is so bad guys, it is literally awful for so many reasons and has a lot of problems. I really don’t recommend it to anyone, but these tiny moments where it accidentally says something interesting (like how tragic immortality is) keep me coming back and I am annoyed with myself over it.
> 
> Religion during the french revolution was really really interesting and I recommend you do research on it. The short version is, before the revolution there was a lot of corruption among the clergy, which the starving revolutionaries were unsurprisingly not happy about. They took over land belonging to the church, killed and exiled priests, and eventually changed the calendar to a 10 day week, so that it would be impossible to tell what day was sunday (the assumption was people would stop practising religion if they didn’t know what day of the week it was). Robespierre eventually created a new religion called the Cult of the Supreme Being. This was a short lived religion, and some consider this to be a major point in Robespierre’s downfall, because some thought he was trying to claim to be God, and those people may or may not be right. He kind of started to get very power mad at the end. Because of this, I think Grantaire being an atheist makes perfect sense.
> 
> Just as a warning, this story is rated E for a reason. The next chapter will contain explicit material. I will either post a sfw version of the chapter on tumblr, or will put in the beginning author's note where to stop reading if you don’t want to view this material, but please be advised. And because this will be my first time posting porn, I am very nervious so it might take a while for me to update because I am probably obsessively rereading the chapter trying to get it to sound not dumb. Writing porn is hard.
> 
> [Here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog! Feel free to talk to me about this fic, my others or anything else!
> 
> Thank you for reading and stay safe everyone!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason this story is rated E! Please be aware! All things considered though, it is pretty vanilla as far as porn goes, so I have no real other warning besides that.  
> It is official though; I can never allow my parents to find my AO3 now. 
> 
> If you are a minor, or are simply uninterested in such content, please stop reading at this line: “I cannot think of anywhere I would rather be,” Grantaire confided.  
> Don’t worry, you won’t miss much.
> 
> **Warnings:**  
>  Explicit content  
> Discussion of death
> 
> My amazing betas [Elia](https://demourir.tumblr.com/), [LuckyBossuet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyBossuet), and [les Amis DCD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD)

The days before the funeral were predictably hectic.

The Amis had a plan, at least for the most part, but now that this was actually happening, it became obvious just how much of their plan was missing. Enjolras was meeting with other revolutionary groups, trying to have their movements as planned out as possible. Combeferre spent every evening looking over maps of the city attempting to figure out what the army’s movements would be.

Gavroche, who insisted on being useful despite everyone telling him he should stay away, had begun running letters between the barricade organizers. Grantaire was sure Courfeyrac had given him this job because it was less dangerous than whatever Gavroche would have gotten up to on his own.

Joly apparently now knew how to melt metal into bullets —Grantaire didn’t know when he had learned this skill. Bossuet apparently now knew how to burn himself on hot metal —Grantaire had a pretty good idea when he learned this skill. Feuilly was whispering about the coming revolution to his fellow factory workers, trying to gather as much support as he could.

Grantaire spotted Bahorel giving Jehan a crash course on handling a gun in the back of the Musain one evening. Grantaire hated seeing it, he didn’t really think someone as gentle as Jehan was capable of firing a gun and killing someone. He was glad the man knew how at least; it was a skill that might save his life.

Marius was happy because his girlfriend was actually talking to him now.

* * *

“Enjolras, it's late,” Grantaire whispered into his wine bottle.

Enjolras was slouched over one of the Musain’s tables reviewing maps again. Most of the other Amis had already gone home for the evening, but Enjolras, who considered all their lives his responsibility, was, of course, still working.

“I need to make sure I have this memorized,” Enjolras said.

“You have it memorized.” 

“You don’t know that,” Enjolras said skeptically.

“I do know that, because you have been looking over it for days,” Grantaire reasoned. “Besides, we’ll need to be up early tomorrow for the funeral.”

“Grantaire is right,” Combeferre interjected, as he attempted to stifle a yawn, “we should all get some rest while we can.”

“Who knows if there will be time to sleep tomorrow night,” Courfeyrac added.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had also stayed later than the others, determined not to leave until Enjolras did. Grantaire thought this would probably be the deciding factor that convinced Enjolras to go home. Enjolras would go get some sleep if for no other reason than convincing Combeferre and Courfeyrac to do the same. As for Grantaire, he stayed because Enjolras was still here. He would wait here with Enjolras all night if that was what Enjolras was determined to do.

“I feel like there is more to do,” Enjolras confessed, looking back over the weapons stored in the Musain’s backroom.

“There will always be more to do,” Grantaire said. “But you have done all you can for now.”

In a rare moment of bravery, Grantaire reached over and grabbed Enjolras’s hand. What did it matter if they were seen? Tonight was likely their last night together. Enjolras let out an almost inaudible gasp of breath at the forwardness of his action. Enjolras’ eyes fell away from their weapons pile and looked directly at Grantaire.

Grantaire saw so much in those eyes, fear, resolve,  _ love _ . It was nearly too much, Grantaire didn’t know what to say, he was always so bad at finding the right words, but he knew what he wanted. If this was to be the end, he didn’t want to spend it pretending not to be in love. He didn’t want to feel compelled to hide his affection from Combeferre and Courfeyrac, even if they both politely looked away and didn’t ask questions.

He wanted to spend his last night with Enjolras, preferably alone.

“It’s late,” Grantaire said with a small smile. “Let’s go home.”

Grantaire didn’t miss the way Enjolras smiled when he called Enjolras’ apartment ‘home’.

* * *

Enjolras’ apartment was closer and nicer than Grantaire’s own.

In the month they had been together, Grantaire had become well accustomed to these rooms. In many ways they felt more like home than Grantaire’s actual home. Grantaire kept a change of clothes folded in Enjolras’ dresser and one of his rejected paintings, that Enjolras had absconded with, now hung on the bedroom wall.

It was a neat cozy place that held many happy memories for Grantaire. 

He looked around the room as Enjolras went around lighting the candles. It was familiar, yet different now. He was filled with a sort of longing, like a precursor to nostalgia. He already missed the peaceful evenings they spent talking and eating dinner in these chairs. He missed the nights when they would stay up so late, Enjolras would insist he stay the night. He missed the way they held each other close in their sleep even though the summer nights were hot and doing so left them both sweaty in the morning.

It wasn’t even over yet and he already missed this.

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire only noticed he had begun to cry when Enjolras’ thumb began to stroke his cheek, rubbing away the tears. He knew it should have been embarrassing, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He let his head fall onto Enjolras’ shoulder and turned his head into the man’s neck, breathing him in.

“For the first time in my life I am happy with how things are,” Grantaire confessed. “I am not ready to lose this.”

Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire, holding him in a tight embrace. Enjolras didn’t give him false platitudes or promises to live, an honesty Grantaire appreciated but hated thinking about. Instead, Enjolras pet his hair and whispered words of love into his ear as he cried himself out.

“I am sorry,” Grantaire muttered into Enjolras’ shirt, when he had calmed himself down enough to speak.

“Don’t be. I am not ready to lose this either,” Enjolras muttered his confession into Grantaire’s hair.

The admission took Grantaire by surprise, even if it shouldn’t have. Enjolras had told him enough times now that he loved Grantaire back, yet part of him was always surprised to hear it. It was comforting to know that Enjolras didn’t want this to end either.

Grantaire never knew what to say when Enjolras said or did something unexpectedly soft or affectionate. Rather than speak, Grantaire pulled away from Enjolras’ shoulder to kiss him.

The kiss was rough, more forceful than the type they typically shared, a desperate attempt to convey what he couldn’t say aloud. Enjolras tugged at his hair almost desperately, as if he was trying to pull them even closer together.

Grantaire opened his mouth, allowing Enjolras’ tongue entrance. He pressed forward so hard that their teeth collided together. Not one to be deterred, Enjolras tilted his head a bit and kept going.

It was easy for Grantaire to lose himself in this feeling. Enjolras’ cheeks were warm and soft under his hands. When he slid his hand down to Enjolras’ neck, he could feel every heartbeat. Their chests were pressed together, and Grantaire wished he could spend every moment like this.

But they had to break apart eventually to breathe. Grantaire leaned forward resting his forehead against Enjolras’, enjoying the feeling of warm breath ghosting across his nose. Enjolras was smiling while looking at him, his eyes crinkled a bit at the edges of his face.

He really was the most beautiful person Grantaire had ever met. He had a beautiful heart, soul, mind and body. Grantaire couldn’t have picked a better leader, friend or lover if he had tried. He stroked at the pulse point of Enjolras’ neck then placed a quick kiss to Enjolras’ lips.

“It is late,” Enjolras commented as he slid a hand under Grantaire’s jacket running his fingers across Grantaire’s chest. “Perhaps we should retire?”

“I cannot think of anywhere I would rather be,” Grantaire confided.

Grantaire removed Enjolras' clothes carefully, reverently running his fingers against Enjolras’ chest as he undid each button on his waistcoat.

Enjolras seemed satisfied to let Grantaire go as slow as he desired, he was too preoccupied with kissing at the scruff of Grantaire’s neck to care. If Grantaire was thinking more clearly, he would have felt guilty tossing Enjolras’ high-quality waistcoat on the floor, but Enjolras was in his arms, so there was little hope of him thinking clearly.

It was only when Grantaire had gotten Enjolras bare chested that Enjolras seemed to realize that Grantaire was still fully clothed. Enjolras pulled at the knot on Grantaire’s cravat, seemingly frustrated when it didn’t come undo immediately.

“Want some help?” Grantaire laughed. It felt good to laugh with Enjolras like this, things had been so serious these last few days he had almost forgotten that they used to have fun together.

“What I want,” Enjolras remarked, “is to see you naked.”

“I can never deny you anything,” Grantaire said it like a joke, but it was truer that he could express; there were very few things he wouldn’t do for Enjolras and nothing he would deny him.

As Grantaire released the knot on his cravat, Enjolras began pulling apart the buttons on his waistcoat. Enjolras didn’t bother to take off Grantaire’s shirt, just hiked it up so he could run his fingers across Grantaire’s chest.

Enjolras went back to kissing at Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire hissed slightly when Enjolras nipped a bit too hard biting him hard enough to bruise. Enjolras kissed the spot softly in apology, although it hardly mattered, it healed in seconds anyways. Grantaire would have been content to stand there in the hallway and hold Enjolras all night long, but there was something else he also wanted to do.

“I thought you said you wanted to see me naked?” Grantaire whispered into Enjolras’ hair. “Did you change your mind?”

Enjolras reluctantly pulled away from Grantaire’s scruff to let out an annoyed huff. “I plan on taking my time with you tonight.”

“Which one of us was so desperate to get a shirt off they forgot how to undo a cravat?” Grantaire teased but leaned up on his tiptoes to give Enjolras a kiss on the nose in apology.

“I am pretty sure the desperate one at the end of the night isn’t going to be me,” Enjolras retorted as he took Grantaire’s hand into his own and led them both to bed.

Grantaire hadn’t been nervous a moment ago, under Enjolras’ lips it was hard to think clearly enough for nervousness to come. But he was nervous now. It was the same nervousness that came every time Enjolras permitted him this.

While Enjolras had allowed him the honor of his company in bed a few times now, Grantaire was still as confused as he was the first time. The very idea that Enjolras would allow Grantaire to touch him in such a way left him more than a little breathless.

Grantaire always expected Enjolras to change his mind at any moment. He was always purposefully slow to give Enjolras time to back away. Enjolras never did though, the only real complaints Enjolras ever had about their sex life was that Grantaire was just too damn slow.

Unlike Grantaire, who was careful and hesitant, Enjolras was quick and sure. It had taken him a few times to come into his own, his experience before Grantaire was practically nonexistent, but he was as quick a learner as Grantaire had always thought. He no longer sat back and let Grantaire do as he pleased, he had learned what he liked and, moreover, he had learned what  _ Grantaire _ liked, and he was not at all ashamed to use this knowledge to his advantage. Not that Grantaire was complaining.

Enjolras pushed Grantaire down onto the bed, it made a squeaking sound from his sudden weight. Enjolras maneuvered on top of him and began kissing his way down Grantaire’s neck again. Enjolras made his way to Grantaire’s nipples licking softly at the buds till they became pert. This action always made Grantaire’s toes curl in pleasure. Enjolras had been quick to discover this trick, and even quicker to exploit it. Grantaire let out a gasp at the sensation and threaded his fingers through Enjolras’ soft hair.

Once he was satisfied with his work, Enjolras removed himself from Grantaire’s nipples, leaving a trail of saliva behind him. Grantaire tried to hold in his dissatisfaction at Enjolras pulling away, but was probably unsuccessful because Enjolras let out a chuckle before he continued to kiss his way down Grantaire’s chest.

When Enjolras got lower, to the well-known point midway down Grantaire’s chest, he stopped. Enjolras had done this before, stopped to look for a wound that wasn’t there. Enjolras splayed his fingers out gently caressing the spot where Grantaire had been shot.

“I am fine,” Grantaire tried to quell Enjolras’ concerns. “There is nothing there.”

“Not anymore,” Enjolras admitted as he bent down to place a lingering kiss on Grantaire’s unmarred skin. “But there was. You died.”

Grantaire sat up and reached out towards Enjolras. Grantaire grasped Enjolras’ hair and gently tilted his head up to look at him instead of his chest. “If there is one single perk to being immortal, it is being able to spend more time with you.”

Enjolras surged forward to kiss him and Grantaire went easily. He lost himself in the pull of Enjolras’ lips and the soft licks of his tongue. At some point in the kiss, Enjolras’ hands find their way to Grantaire’s crotch. Enjolras began to undo the button on Grantaire’s trousers, his hand brushing over Grantaire’s half hard cock. Grantaire couldn’t help but lean into Enjolras’ touch.

“I’ll get us some oil,” Enjolras said, reluctantly pulling away from Grantaire’s lips.

Grantaire stared after Enjolras in a daze. It took him a minute to regain his senses enough to realize he should finish getting undressed. He used this moment of clarity to wiggle out of the rest of his clothes and toss them haphazardly onto the floor. Grantaire then made himself comfortable against Enjolras’ headboard and pillows. He looked over to Enjolras who was taking off his own clothes in a manner that was only slightly more organized than Grantaire himself had.

Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh when he saw Enjolras pull out a bottle of oil from his dresser. “I take it that bottle isn’t for cooking?”

Enjolras had enough shame to at least look embarrassed when he answered. “Are you complaining?”

“Never,” Grantaire said with a smile. That hadn’t been there the last time Grantaire was here, and the bottle wasn’t completely full either. Apparently, Enjolras had begun to enjoy his own company as well.

Grantaire was only sad he didn’t get to see it. He was sure Enjolras made a beautiful sight, fucking himself on his own fingers. The image went straight to his cock and was enough to make him fully erect.

Seeing this, Enjolras smirked. “Like what you see?”

This was an unfair question because Enjolras knew exactly what effect he had on Grantaire. It was hard for him to take his eyes off of Enjolras under normal circumstances, it was downright impossible when the man was standing naked in front of him.

Enjolras confidently strolled back to the bed and settled himself between Grantaire’s legs placing a quick kiss on each thigh.

Grantaire was caught between two distinct desires, part of him desperately wanted Enjolras to start fucking him, the other wanted to make this as slow as possible. If this was the end, he wanted to enjoy it as much as possible, he wanted to memorize every bit of Enjolras’ skin. He wanted to make tonight last forever, so the funeral would never come, so the revolution would never come, so Enjolras’ death would never come—

Grantaire’s dark train of thought was cut off by Enjolras inserting one of his long delicate fingers into his entrance. Grantaire let out a moan from the unexpected action.

“Try not to think so much,” Enjolras muttered into his stomach.

Enjolras was good at making him not think, it really only took Enjolras looking his direction for all logical thought to go out the window. So really it was completely impossible for Grantaire to think at all when Enjolras’ finger was in his ass.

“Is this the only way to get you quiet?” Enjolras joked twisting his finger around insider Grantaire, “If only I’d known years ago.”

Grantaire was the opposite of quiet when Enjolras slipped his second finger in. Even this close to being lost in pleasure Grantaire had the wherewithal to be cheeky with Enjolras.

“Don’t lie, you love to fight with me,” Grantaire retorted leaning up on his elbows slightly to look Enjolras in the eyes. “You said it yourself.”

Enjolras, apparently unwilling to be caught in a lie, used this opportunity to jerk his fingers in just the right way and Grantaire gasped out his name.

“You were saying?” Enjolras asked smugly as he went back to scissoring Grantaire open.

Normally, Grantaire would say something, anything to aggravate him, but in that moment, with Enjolras looking down at him, he found he couldn’t. Tonight was the end and he couldn’t lie and say that this moment didn’t mean everything to him.

“I love you,” Grantaire said earnestly. He felt tears begin to slip from his eyes. He wasn’t ready for this to end; he wasn’t ready to let go of Enjolras.

Enjolras leaned up and placed a kiss on his mouth. It was less a kiss and more a gentle brush of skin, but it was enough to send shivers down his spine. Then Enjolras placed a kiss on the corner of each of his eyes, whipping away his tears with a gesture of love.

“I love you too, Grantaire,” Enjolras whispered, his breath ticking Grantaire’s skin.

Enjolras didn’t seem in the mood to linger on sentimentality, unwilling to dwell on the possibility that this was their last night together. Enjolras inserted a third finger and Grantaire had just about enough.

“I am ready Enjolras,” Grantaire whined impatiently. He moved his hips back and forth in an attempt to fuck himself on Enjolras’ fingers. “It is not like you can really hurt me anyways.”

The reminder of Grantaire’s quick healing and inability to truly be harmed by physical injury did nothing to hasten Enjolras’ pace. “I would prefer to not hurt you at all.”

In some ways, Grantaire blamed himself for this. The first times they had been together, Grantaire had been very slow and gentle when stretching Enjolras open. He had been reverent in his care, unwilling to let Enjolras feel any pain. Enjolras’ pleasure mattered more to him than anything else. When they had switched positions, the one thing Enjolras had learned from Grantaire was how to make his partner whine in pleasure.

“Enjolras, please, I am ready for you,” Grantaire begged, grasping at Enjolras’ arms, his nails scratching at Enjolras’ skin.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Enjolras teased, his hot breath ghosting his ear. “That you would be the one desperate tonight.”

Luckily, Enjolras seemed to have some mercy because he removed his fingers. Grantaire moaned slightly at the loss but, looking over, he saw Enjolras pouring more oil onto his cock and rubbing it around to cover himself completely.

“You're beautiful,” Enjolras said, a little bit of awe shining through his voice.

If Grantaire didn’t know Enjolras to be earnest to a fault, he would think him to be lying. No one had ever called Grantaire beautiful before Enjolras, and he doubted anyone else ever would. He wasn’t beautiful, not by any normal human standard. His teeth were crooked and his face a bit lopsided, not quite symmetrical in the way it was supposed to be. Grantaire always figured this was just a part of what he was, the destructive nature of revolutions breaking through.

But of course, Enjolras didn’t see it that way. Enjolras seemed to see something in him that no one else did, least of all Grantaire himself. Grantaire knew better than to deny the statement, that would just end with Enjolras fighting him over the point —it had happened before. Grantaire didn’t want to fight tonight, he just wanted to hold Enjolras one last time.

Enjolras seemed to take his silence as acceptance, as if it meant Grantaire didn’t disagree with the assessment anymore, because he smiled pleased with himself.

“Are you ready?” Enjolras asked, his intense gaze meeting Grantaire’s.

Grantaire reached up and cupped Enjolras’ cheek, “yes.”

Slowly and with great care, Enjolras pushed his cock into him. There was a slight burn at the stretch, but Grantaire revelled in the feeling of having Enjolras near him— inside him. Grantaire reached up to Enjolras’ shoulders and dragged him down for another kiss. Grantaire let out a gasp at the feeling of Enjolras pushing all the way in, Enjolras used this opportunity to sweep his tongue back into Grantaire’s mouth. It was warm and perfect, and, not for the first time that night, Grantaire wished he could stay in this moment forever.

Enjolras pulled away from Grantaire’s mouth and his cock followed suit, removing itself almost entirely from Grantaire’s ass, before Enjolras snapped back inside him again. Grantaire tossed his hands around Enjolras’ back, his nails burying into Enjolras’ skin as Grantaire clung to him in pleasure.

Enjolras set a brutal rhythm, with each thrust it was like he was trying to say something. Each gasp seemed to have some secret meaning Grantaire couldn’t quite decipher, but some deep part of him understood. This was a goodbye. It was hard and soft. It was Enjolras harshly grabbing Grantaire’s hair, and Enjolras lightly kissing his cheek. This was a denial of what tomorrow would bring, and an acceptance of death.

When Grantaire came, it was with Enjolras’ hand wrapped around his dick, Enjolras’ cock buried deep within him, Enjolras’ lips hovering centimeters from his own. For a moment, it really did feel like the world had stopped, like his desperate plan to get Enjolras into bed and keep him there till the fighting stopped just might work. It didn’t remain like that though.

Grantaire’s erratic breathing eventually returned to normal, his heartbeat slowing, and his vision returned to normal. Enjolras was there, laying on top of him, his fingers playing with the hairs on Grantaire’s chest. Grantaire could feel the stickiness between his legs, Enjolras’ come dripping out of him.

Grantaire pulled his arms around Enjolras, enveloping him in a warm hug, holding him in place. Enjolras seemed happy to rest upon Grantaire’s chest all night. His head was above Grantaire’s heart, listening to each beat.

“You’re my heart,” Grantaire whispered softly into the dark of the room, “I want you to know that. From before I even met you, you were my heart.”

Enjolras took a sharp intake of breath. They had talked about his Nationhood before, about how his body worked, but Enjolras had never asked where he was located before. Enjolras absorbed this for a moment before looking up at Grantaire with a pleased smile.

“Then you don’t need to be afraid of tomorrow, Grantaire.” Enjolras snuck his hand into Grantaire’s own, squeezing it lightly. “That means I will always be with you. Whatever happens I will be right here,” Enjolras laid his other hand onto Grantaire’s chest right above his heart, “with you.”

That wasn’t quite how it worked. He had a heart before Enjolras was even born, back then someone else had embodied his heart. He didn’t know who, it didn’t matter really, they were dead and gone now, but someone else had once been his heart. He changed as his people did, when the people making up one part of his body were gone, those that remained spread out thinner to fill the space.

Grantaire didn’t see any reason to tell Enjolras that though. It was a nice sentiment, Enjolras always being with him, even if he didn’t like thinking about what that would entail.

Enjolras didn’t let Grantaire ruminate on this for long, he leaned up to press his lips against Grantaire’s again. Grantaire still wondered how he could be so blessed. Surprisingly, Enjolras agreed with the sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so embarrassed right now. This is my first time posting explicit content, so I am very nervous and blushing a lot. I read this over so many times before posting it trying to make it perfect, and I hesitated to press the ‘post’ button for like an hour,,, I am sorry if it is bad. I tried....  
> Idk, I just really liked the idea of a sentimental emotional sex scene the night before the barricade. 
> 
> [Here](https://lesbianjolllly.tumblr.com/) is my Les Mis side blog! Feel free to talk to me about this fic, my others or anything else!
> 
> Thank you for reading and stay safe everyone!


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